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January 15 '06, later that night...
Just got back from Brokeback Mountain.
I'd like to clear something up right off the bat: there's a huuuuuuuuge misconception that this film is just a "gay cowboy movie". It's not, OK? They herd sheep. It's a gay shepherd movie.
I wanted to love it, because there just haven't been that many great movies this year, I mean the kind that hit you like a ton of bricks and stay with you for days, and I was hoping that all silly, sophomoric joking aside, this was gonna be that movie and it wasn't. I don't go to the movies hoping to be disappointed.
Heath Ledger was terrific, all the kudos he's getting are deserved, especially since I just saw him in Casanova and he was completely different in both flicks. Jake G...he was fine, but I just wasn't feelin' it, you know?
It shouldn't be too hard to convince me you're in love with Heath Ledger, should it, since I'm already 9/10ths of the way there? But I didn't get that feeling, I felt like their attraction to each other was just physical. Heck, not only did I not think it was a "great love story", it wasn't even the best love-story-between-two-fellas-western I've ever seen. Lonesome Dove was far better. (Both screeplays by Larry McMurtry...you can't win 'em all, I guess) I really felt, really believed the love between those two characters, and before ya'll start screaming at me that Woodrow and Gus weren't gay, I know that, but I thought we were talking about love, right? I didn't feel that between Heath and Jake. Even in the scene where Jake is yelling at Heath because they never get to see each other, it seems he's just mad because he's not getting enough sex. I didn't exactly get the warm fuzzies, and again, I wanted to get the warm fuzzies.
Come to think of it, Tombstone was better, too. Wyatt and Doc? Fuggedaboudit.
Alright, I'll come clean, there was something in the movie that really did offend me: I'm talking, of course, about "Old People Makeup". It's long been a cinematic pet-peeve of mine; it never looks real and it takes me right out of the story. Heath Ledger was good enough that he convinced me he really had aged 20 years, but suddenly Jake Gyllenhall is sporting a horrible porn 'stache and a pillow under his shirt, and Anne Hathaway is stuck in one awful wig after another.
So there you have it: not only did I not think it was the best movie of the year, I thought Brokeback Mountain was only the third best "male-love-story- western" of the past twenty years.
But mostly it was just too dern long.
My favorite cinematic male couples:
5) Frodo and Sam
4) Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday
3) Arthur and Hobson
2) Gus McCrae and Woodrow Call
1) Brian Piccolo and Gale Sayers
I should say in all fairness that Margy loved it, thought it was beautiful and sad and totally moving and obviously it's getting loads of praise.
Maybe I'm just dead inside.
January 15 '06
And I meant my dormant brain, not my dormant brian. My brian isn't the least bit dormant, thank you very much.
So Knock! was a wicked funny success, got well-deserved raves in both the Strib and the Pioneer press. It's just really a great night out, go see it!
Nice write-up about Jay in this morning's Strib as well. I can't seem to find it online, but it was at the bottom of the sports page.
Mom and Dad saw Triple Espresso last night, they said it was really great also; and apparently the fella in the show intoduced them to the rest of the audience as his parents. I wish I'd been there for that.
January 14 '06
Billy just called to say that
A) The Golden Globes are on Monday night
B) He threw up in his mouth a little bit when he read this line, posted below:
I feel like a part of my brain that's been dormant for a long time is starting to wake up.
C) He's mad because he just read that Julie Bowen got married, and to a non-celebrity, which means it'll last.
He also referred to Rachel McAdams' sweetie Ryan Gosling as something even I can't repeat, even though he loved the two of them together in the Notebook.
So, sorry I got the date for the Globes wrong, but I won't apologize for what I wrote about my dormant brian, in fact I'll go so far as to say Billy's just jealous.
January 13, '06
OK, I'm just having a little fun here, so don't yell at me. But I pasted a couple of gems from an online interview with James Freyboots, from back when his book first came out. The bits in parentheses are from me. And no, I haven't read the book. I probably should, since I can't seem to end my love affair with the crack pipeOH FOR GOD'S SAKE THAT WAS A JOKE. Is that how it's gonna be? He can embellish but I can't?
Q: The story takes place when you were 23; you're 33 now. Have you changed significantly since then, other than career success, sobriety and personal life changes, or are you more or less the same person that we read in A Million Little Pieces?
A: I think I am different in a few important ways. I am far less angry. I am much calmer. I don't drink or get high, which is the most obvious difference. I am much less reckless. (ha! and I'm actually high right now.) I am much more aware of how my behavior affects other people, which makes me more considerate. I feel much, much better about myself. I am much, much happier. (Because I am rich now, and the amount of sex I have with supermodels is actually becoming tedious.)
Q: Are you getting a lot of shit for the salty language in the book?
A: Not getting much shit at this point. I tried to write an honest book. (I mean, you know, honest as in "I believe in Leprachauns". That kind of honest. The fake kind. That makes me rich.)
Moving on.
Big fat pic of my faaaaaaavorite tall drink of water George Strait on the front of the Variety page this morning, yummy yum yum. I've loved him since I came across Chill of an Early Fall in my brothers cd collection years ago in San Diego. (then, of course, we moved to Texas, where not loving George is considered a hate crime.) I am not, however, going to his show tonight, the McCollow coffers are empty until further notice and besides, we're going out tomorrow night...opening night of KNOCK! at Theater Latte Da. Tonight's a preview. I don't know what that means, really, I guess tonight they get to make mistakes or something. But go get tickets and see the show, it's super funny. Sunday, of course, we've got the Golden Globes. Huge weekend; if we were going to George tonight it'd be quite the entertainment hat trick. Probably just rent something tonight. No, I haven't joined netflix, I still go to Blockbuster and stand in line and rub elbows with the great unwashed....I just can't get my brain to like the idea of ordering a movie days in advance. What if The Interpreter shows up and I suddenly feel like a comedy? I mean a comedy that's a comedy on purpose? Speaking of that, watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith the other night. It was cute, not great, I certainly wouldn't sit through it again, and to be perfectly honest, I thought the two leads blew dog farts. Brad Pitt does absolutely zero for me, plus he's a sucky actor. YES HE IS. Don't give me some b.s. about how great he was in Kalifornia or whatever, he stinks. But Angelina stunk too, and I mean that in more than just the way Melanie Griffith stinks, like you could catch Herpes just from breathing the same air as her, although I do think that of Angie, too. Plus, she looks really sexy when she poofs up her hair, but when she pulls it back tight? Uck. her face is just too big to pull off that look, it makes her look like a jack-o-lantern.
Enough about that. Tuesday, my mom and sister and I went over to Steve's house to check out his studio. He was very gracious, didn't seem to mind that we also gave ourselves a tour of his home. And rifled through his underwear drawer. (no, not really) But it was way cool, I've been feeling this for months and have remarked on it a few times, I feel like a part of my brain that's been dormant for a long time is starting to wake up.
Speaking of waking up, I must go get dressed. I'll leave you with this: last night, I turned on the tub and sent Molly in to take a bath. She was sitting in there with the water running for about twenty minutes, and I finally called up the stairs for her to turn it off. I walked up to find her sitting in a completely empty tub, mostly dry and still dirty, and she looked up at me and said, "That wasn't much of a bath."
I'd forgotten to put the plug in the drain.
and it was just really important to him that everyone knew this:
LOS ANGELES (AP) - It could have been his gig -- again. But Billy Crystal says he passed on hosting the Oscars this year because his one-man stage show is consuming his attention. Crystal says Academy Awards producer Gil Cates asked him repeatedly to do the show, calling as late as just before Christmas. But he tells the Los Angeles Daily News that his Tony Award-winning "700 Sundays" is his first priority. "700 Sundays" is playing in Los Angeles through mid-February.With Crystal passing, the job of hosting the Oscar ceremony on March 5th went to Jon Stewart.
January 9 '06
The longest winter break in the history of the universe is finally over. I exaggerate, of course, it wasn't any longer than normal, it was just timed so weirdly. I felt like there was no lead-up time ; it was boom schoolsoutChristmasEveChristmasNewYears and then it poofed out like a balloon payment on the other side of January. I've never taken the tree down while the kids were still home before.
Diner at gramma's Friday night, JP's last night in town so we all ambled on over there for some pork chops...had to cut the fun short when Molly pressed her elbow against the fireplace glass and melted the skin clean off. Ran her to Walgreen's, called the nurse line and they told us what to do, I wasn't all that concerned, having had my senses dulled to children's injuries over the years, and it really wasn't that bad.
But as would be expected from any 4-year-old who just suffered her first burn, she shrieked like a hyena for an hour straight.
Now, those acquainted with Molly know she pretty much lives by the credo "What would Scarlett O'Hara do?" So when we finally got her lotioned and potioned and drugged up so she could sleep, she limped pathetically up the stairs like she had two broken legs instead of a quarter-sized owie on her right elbow.
The other kids totally doted on her, to, which just fueled her scenery chewing. I'm not sure if they were acting out of the kindness of their hearts or that it allowed them to all have a slumber party together, but Meg propped her arm up on pillows and read her a story while Finbar curled up next to her and fed her water through a straw and fetched things for her and whatnot. When it came time for prayers, I added to the end, "and thank you God, for our nice vacation," and Molly popped up from her reclined position and said very matter-of-factly, "Mom. We didn't go on vacaction."
"I just meant our vacation from school, hon."
"Oh...ooooohhhhhhh," she wimpered as she flopped back down.
Conversely, she'll suck it up when the part calls for it.
I bought her a pair of those red sparkly Dorothy shoes at Target right before Christmas, and she loved them so much she insisted on wearing them even though they caused her feet to almost instantaneously gush blood when she put them on. I finally hid them away and explained that yes, they were very pretty but they were torture shoes, and that I'd find her some that wouldn't mame her, but she kept digging them out and cramming them on her bloody stump feet, insisting they didn't hurt. Her feet are now tough enough to wear them without incident. The show must go on, you know?
*Yes, I know I misspelled half the words in this morning's post. In my defense, there are some things I'm good at, I just can't think of any at the moment.**
January 6? When is school gonna start?
My new chairs came yesterday, sooooo pretty, so very very pretty... My very first fancy-pants-grown-up furniture ever in my whole entire life. I mean I've bought furniture before, but never complete with fabric swatches and hemming and hawwing and salesladies and whatnot, it's always just been forcing Mike to sit in whatever discounted thing I found in a big Raiders of the Lost Ark-esque clearance outlet so no one else could claim it while I flagged down a salesperson. And I'm already finding them to be a great inspiration; buying something I absolutely cannot afford has spurred me on and I wrote 21 pages on my novel last night. Yep, writin' a novel... admitting that is tantamount to saying "Yep, I've got a pulse..." or more accurately "Yep, I'm a giant dink" but you knew that already. I told that to someone else the other day and they sneeringly asked if it was "one of those chick-lit things". Hey, maybe...you wanna make something of it? And if it is, and I'm lucky enough to find some publisher to bind it in pastel pink paper with martini glasses stamped on it I'll be laughing all the way to the bank and you're not invited to the big fat party I'm gonna have to celebrate.
But maybe it's not...maybe it's a detective novel, a comic one with a wacky heroine who lives in south Florida and has lots of crazy relatives and the title will be in big yellow letters with a lizard entwined around them. Or maybe it's a thriller about a dastardly religious cult and it'll get all of Christendom's undies in a bunch. Or maybe it's a memoir packed with lies, or a book about a depressing family whose youngest died in a threshing accident and Oprah will love it. Or maybe it's about a hero named Mitch Rapp, except then I'll get sued so I'll name my guy Mitch Crapp instead. My point here is that everything's been done already anyway, so why shouldn't I do it too? And it'll never see the light of day anyway so get off my back.
My new favorite thing, other than my chairs of course, can be found here:
Check out the podcasts. They're the funniest things I've ever heard.
January 4 '06
Good gravy, it's 2006. Six years and some change ago we were all worried about y2k, can you stand it?? I was pregnant with Molly and we lived in a super cute little rental house across the road from my parents. Very Everybody Loves Raymond, except funnier.
The Waddle was a great success. Beautiful night, not real cold, dry, easy course, lotsa runners. So many, in fact, I couldn't even get in to the after party at Tejas and ended up at a bar across the street until the crowd died down. Mumsie and Dad were nice enough to come out and volunteer; my poor folks were in the tent bagging free groceries like champions. I crept back at one point to say 'hi' to them, and my dad yelled "It's an angry mob!"
It wasn't. It was terrific, and afterward a whole group ended up singing karaoke in Kenny's basement.
Took the tree down yesterday, you know it's time when it seems like that thing is following you around. Like those Ikea ads say:
January...a whole new year...your living room furniture has been awol for over a month and that gingerbread house is moldy. Be honest; you've been shoving more than just gifts under that blue spruce; look closely and you'll find laundry, books, the toilet plunger and anything else you simply didn't feel like putting away under there, and it's not ok. That's not "picking up", you're just lazy. Take your damn tree down, it looks like it has a hangover. It's Time.
It always makes me a little sad, but I am glad to get my house back. Weaning myself off Christmas treats is the hardest part of the post-holidays. Last night Mike and I were watching Wedding Crashers and I was jonesing for something, anything, a stale m&m cookie, a half-eaten truffle, I mean I've been treating my body to a sugar rush every hour on the hour for weeks, I can't be expected to go cold turkey, aiight?
All I could find was a broken candy cane. Although awards season is coming up and I do need to start training for that. I'm not feeling at all enthusiastic about this year, I have to say. Gotta start seeing all the movies and pretty much none of them excite me, with the possible exception of Casanova, but it's only showing at the Uptown and I refuse to see a movie in a venue little nicer than a crack house.
We did go see the British Commercials thing at the new Walker, which I think is pretty cool even though the theater has hard, small seats, but whaddya expect, it's artsy. The experience was totally ruined by this jackhole sitting behind us, laughing far too loud and just plain verbally reacting to every millisecond of the show, like looky me, I get it, no I mean I really really get it, because I'm so much more clever and in tune with the British sensibility (which is far superior to anything here, by the way, I can't even believe I live here but thank gawd for the Walker it sustains me, you know?) that I think I'll make myself the show!
Jerk.
© Katie McCollow, 2006•
anuary 15 '06
And I meant my dormant brain, not my dormant brian. My brian isn't the least bit dormant, thank you very much.
So Knock! was a wicked funny success, got well-deserved raves in both the Strib and the Pioneer press. It's just really a great night out, go see it!
Nice write-up about Jay in this morning's Strib as well. I can't seem to find it online, but it was at the bottom of the sports page.
Mom and Dad saw Triple Espresso last night, they said it was really great also; and apparently the fella in the show intoduced them to the rest of the audience as his parents. I wish I'd been there for that.
January 14 '06
Billy just called to say that
A) The Golden Globes are on Monday night
B) He threw up in his mouth a little bit when he read this line, posted below:
I feel like a part of my brain that's been dormant for a long time is starting to wake up.
C) He's mad because he just read that Julie Bowen got married, and to a non-celebrity, which means it'll last.
He also referred to Rachel McAdams' sweetie Ryan Gosling as something even I can't repeat, even though he loved the two of them together in the Notebook.
So, sorry I got the date for the Globes wrong, but I won't apologize for what I wrote about my dormant brian, in fact I'll go so far as to say Billy's just jealous.
January 13, '06
OK, I'm just having a little fun here, so don't yell at me. But I pasted a couple of gems from an online interview with James Freyboots, from back when his book first came out. The bits in parentheses are from me. And no, I haven't read the book. I probably should, since I can't seem to end my love affair with the crack pipeOH FOR GOD'S SAKE THAT WAS A JOKE. Is that how it's gonna be? He can embellish but I can't?
Q: The story takes place when you were 23; you're 33 now. Have you changed significantly since then, other than career success, sobriety and personal life changes, or are you more or less the same person that we read in A Million Little Pieces?
A: I think I am different in a few important ways. I am far less angry. I am much calmer. I don't drink or get high, which is the most obvious difference. I am much less reckless. (ha! and I'm actually high right now.) I am much more aware of how my behavior affects other people, which makes me more considerate. I feel much, much better about myself. I am much, much happier. (Because I am rich now, and the amount of sex I have with supermodels is actually becoming tedious.)
Q: Are you getting a lot of shit for the salty language in the book?
A: Not getting much shit at this point. I tried to write an honest book. (I mean, you know, honest as in "I believe in Leprachauns". That kind of honest. The fake kind. That makes me rich.)
Moving on.
Big fat pic of my faaaaaaavorite tall drink of water George Strait on the front of the Variety page this morning, yummy yum yum. I've loved him since I came across Chill of an Early Fall in my brothers cd collection years ago in San Diego. (then, of course, we moved to Texas, where not loving George is considered a hate crime.) I am not, however, going to his show tonight, the McCollow coffers are empty until further notice and besides, we're going out tomorrow night...opening night of KNOCK! at Theater Latte Da. Tonight's a preview. I don't know what that means, really, I guess tonight they get to make mistakes or something. But go get tickets and see the show, it's super funny. Sunday, of course, we've got the Golden Globes. Huge weekend; if we were going to George tonight it'd be quite the entertainment hat trick. Probably just rent something tonight. No, I haven't joined netflix, I still go to Blockbuster and stand in line and rub elbows with the great unwashed....I just can't get my brain to like the idea of ordering a movie days in advance. What if The Interpreter shows up and I suddenly feel like a comedy? I mean a comedy that's a comedy on purpose? Speaking of that, watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith the other night. It was cute, not great, I certainly wouldn't sit through it again, and to be perfectly honest, I thought the two leads blew dog farts. Brad Pitt does absolutely zero for me, plus he's a sucky actor. YES HE IS. Don't give me some b.s. about how great he was in Kalifornia or whatever, he stinks. But Angelina stunk too, and I mean that in more than just the way Melanie Griffith stinks, like you could catch Herpes just from breathing the same air as her, although I do think that of Angie, too. Plus, she looks really sexy when she poofs up her hair, but when she pulls it back tight? Uck. her face is just too big to pull off that look, it makes her look like a jack-o-lantern.
Enough about that. Tuesday, my mom and sister and I went over to Steve's house to check out his studio. He was very gracious, didn't seem to mind that we also gave ourselves a tour of his home. And rifled through his underwear drawer. (no, not really) But it was way cool, I've been feeling this for months and have remarked on it a few times, I feel like a part of my brain that's been dormant for a long time is starting to wake up.
Speaking of waking up, I must go get dressed. I'll leave you with this: last night, I turned on the tub and sent Molly in to take a bath. She was sitting in there with the water running for about twenty minutes, and I finally called up the stairs for her to turn it off. I walked up to find her sitting in a completely empty tub, mostly dry and still dirty, and she looked up at me and said, "That wasn't much of a bath."
I'd forgotten to put the plug in the drain.
and it was just really important to him that everyone knew this:
LOS ANGELES (AP) - It could have been his gig -- again. But Billy Crystal says he passed on hosting the Oscars this year because his one-man stage show is consuming his attention. Crystal says Academy Awards producer Gil Cates asked him repeatedly to do the show, calling as late as just before Christmas. But he tells the Los Angeles Daily News that his Tony Award-winning "700 Sundays" is his first priority. "700 Sundays" is playing in Los Angeles through mid-February.With Crystal passing, the job of hosting the Oscar ceremony on March 5th went to Jon Stewart.
January 9 '06
The longest winter break in the history of the universe is finally over. I exaggerate, of course, it wasn't any longer than normal, it was just timed so weirdly. I felt like there was no lead-up time ; it was boom schoolsoutChristmasEveChristmasNewYears and then it poofed out like a balloon payment on the other side of January. I've never taken the tree down while the kids were still home before.
Diner at gramma's Friday night, JP's last night in town so we all ambled on over there for some pork chops...had to cut the fun short when Molly pressed her elbow against the fireplace glass and melted the skin clean off. Ran her to Walgreen's, called the nurse line and they told us what to do, I wasn't all that concerned, having had my senses dulled to children's injuries over the years, and it really wasn't that bad.
But as would be expected from any 4-year-old who just suffered her first burn, she shrieked like a hyena for an hour straight.
Now, those acquainted with Molly know she pretty much lives by the credo "What would Scarlett O'Hara do?" So when we finally got her lotioned and potioned and drugged up so she could sleep, she limped pathetically up the stairs like she had two broken legs instead of a quarter-sized owie on her right elbow.
The other kids totally doted on her, to, which just fueled her scenery chewing. I'm not sure if they were acting out of the kindness of their hearts or that it allowed them to all have a slumber party together, but Meg propped her arm up on pillows and read her a story while Finbar curled up next to her and fed her water through a straw and fetched things for her and whatnot. When it came time for prayers, I added to the end, "and thank you God, for our nice vacation," and Molly popped up from her reclined position and said very matter-of-factly, "Mom. We didn't go on vacaction."
"I just meant our vacation from school, hon."
"Oh...ooooohhhhhhh," she wimpered as she flopped back down.
Conversely, she'll suck it up when the part calls for it.
I bought her a pair of those red sparkly Dorothy shoes at Target right before Christmas, and she loved them so much she insisted on wearing them even though they caused her feet to almost instantaneously gush blood when she put them on. I finally hid them away and explained that yes, they were very pretty but they were torture shoes, and that I'd find her some that wouldn't mame her, but she kept digging them out and cramming them on her bloody stump feet, insisting they didn't hurt. Her feet are now tough enough to wear them without incident. The show must go on, you know?
*Yes, I know I misspelled half the words in this morning's post. In my defense, there are some things I'm good at, I just can't think of any at the moment.**
January 6? When is school gonna start?
My new chairs came yesterday, sooooo pretty, so very very pretty... My very first fancy-pants-grown-up furniture ever in my whole entire life. I mean I've bought furniture before, but never complete with fabric swatches and hemming and hawwing and salesladies and whatnot, it's always just been forcing Mike to sit in whatever discounted thing I found in a big Raiders of the Lost Ark-esque clearance outlet so no one else could claim it while I flagged down a salesperson. And I'm already finding them to be a great inspiration; buying something I absolutely cannot afford has spurred me on and I wrote 21 pages on my novel last night. Yep, writin' a novel... admitting that is tantamount to saying "Yep, I've got a pulse..." or more accurately "Yep, I'm a giant dink" but you knew that already. I told that to someone else the other day and they sneeringly asked if it was "one of those chick-lit things". Hey, maybe...you wanna make something of it? And if it is, and I'm lucky enough to find some publisher to bind it in pastel pink paper with martini glasses stamped on it I'll be laughing all the way to the bank and you're not invited to the big fat party I'm gonna have to celebrate.
But maybe it's not...maybe it's a detective novel, a comic one with a wacky heroine who lives in south Florida and has lots of crazy relatives and the title will be in big yellow letters with a lizard entwined around them. Or maybe it's a thriller about a dastardly religious cult and it'll get all of Christendom's undies in a bunch. Or maybe it's a memoir packed with lies, or a book about a depressing family whose youngest died in a threshing accident and Oprah will love it. Or maybe it's about a hero named Mitch Rapp, except then I'll get sued so I'll name my guy Mitch Crapp instead. My point here is that everything's been done already anyway, so why shouldn't I do it too? And it'll never see the light of day anyway so get off my back.
My new favorite thing, other than my chairs of course, can be found here:
Check out the podcasts. They're the funniest things I've ever heard.
January 4 '06
Good gravy, it's 2006. Six years and some change ago we were all worried about y2k, can you stand it?? I was pregnant with Molly and we lived in a super cute little rental house across the road from my parents. Very Everybody Loves Raymond, except funnier.
The Waddle was a great success. Beautiful night, not real cold, dry, easy course, lotsa runners. So many, in fact, I couldn't even get in to the after party at Tejas and ended up at a bar across the street until the crowd died down. Mumsie and Dad were nice enough to come out and volunteer; my poor folks were in the tent bagging free groceries like champions. I crept back at one point to say 'hi' to them, and my dad yelled "It's an angry mob!"
It wasn't. It was terrific, and afterward a whole group ended up singing karaoke in Kenny's basement.
Took the tree down yesterday, you know it's time when it seems like that thing is following you around. Like those Ikea ads say:
January...a whole new year...your living room furniture has been awol for over a month and that gingerbread house is moldy. Be honest; you've been shoving more than just gifts under that blue spruce; look closely and you'll find laundry, books, the toilet plunger and anything else you simply didn't feel like putting away under there, and it's not ok. That's not "picking up", you're just lazy. Take your damn tree down, it looks like it has a hangover. It's Time.
It always makes me a little sad, but I am glad to get my house back. Weaning myself off Christmas treats is the hardest part of the post-holidays. Last night Mike and I were watching Wedding Crashers and I was jonesing for something, anything, a stale m&m cookie, a half-eaten truffle, I mean I've been treating my body to a sugar rush every hour on the hour for weeks, I can't be expected to go cold turkey, aiight?
All I could find was a broken candy cane. Although awards season is coming up and I do need to start training for that. I'm not feeling at all enthusiastic about this year, I have to say. Gotta start seeing all the movies and pretty much none of them excite me, with the possible exception of Casanova, but it's only showing at the Uptown and I refuse to see a movie in a venue little nicer than a crack house.
We did go see the British Commercials thing at the new Walker, which I think is pretty cool even though the theater has hard, small seats, but whaddya expect, it's artsy. The experience was totally ruined by this jackhole sitting behind us, laughing far too loud and just plain verbally reacting to every millisecond of the show, like looky me, I get it, no I mean I really really get it, because I'm so much more clever and in tune with the British sensibility (which is far superior to anything here, by the way, I can't even believe I live here but thank gawd for the Walker it sustains me, you know?) that I think I'll make myself the show!
Jerk.
January 27 '06
Uncle Pat died on Wednesday.
He lived his whole life in service to other people...my dad wrote the following, and I'll just add that everyone who grew up around these parts knew him as the "bubble-gum man"; if you knocked on his door with a penny, he'd turn it into a piece of Bazooka.
Retired Detective Lieutenant Patrick Thomas ("Pat") Hartigan, whom former Police Chief Anthony Bouza once characterized as, "an urban saint," died at his home in Minneapolis on January 25. He was 75 years old. Predeceased by his parents and one sister, Mary Louise, he is survived by three siblings: retired Municipal Judge Bruce Hartigan; Michael, also a retired city employee; Katherine ("Punkin") Hubbell, of Minnetonka; and a large number of loving cousins, nieces, nephews and friends. A 30-year veteran of the police force, Hartigan was walking a Franklin Avenue beat in 1958 when he came upon an older man who had been beaten and robbed. "He had lost everything he had," Hartigan reported. The policeman volunteered to manage the man's finances, and to dole out his money to him as he needed it. "I'm a stable address," he said, "and my mailbox doesn't get ripped off." Before long, he found himself doing the same for many of the people along his beat, most of them native Americans; through the years, he accumulated hundreds of "clients." He made many enduring friendships, loaned or gave many of them a great deal of his own money, served as best man at their weddings and became godfather to many of their children. In an effort to explain his attitude, he once said, "They're poor and powerless, but they are made in the image and likeness of God. You can't help but like them."
Hartigan never married. He provided a home for his mother for many years, during which time his Franklin Avenue "clients" often telephoned him or knocked on his door in the middle of the night seeking help. Once, when his mother lost patience and berated him for losing sleep and spending energy on people in trouble with the law or in the grip of alcoholism, he replied that for all he knew that was Christ knocking at his door. On another occasion, he complained to his sister that he had bought a house for a family of seven that had no place to live, then found that he had no money left with which to pay his taxes, Within hours, he received a telephone call from the McKnight Foundation notifying him that he was to receive its Humanitarian Award, which included an honorarium of $5.000. In 1991, he received The Archbishop's Catholic Charities Award for seeing to it that, "justice and help were given to the poor and needy."
"Free as he was with his own money, he imposed sensible spending disciplines on those whose finances he managed. Once, when his methods were questioned, the Police Department's Internal Affairs Department found that all those involved "had the utmost trust and confidence" in him and wanted no one else and no other method employed to control their assets. As a result of the investigation, Police Chief Bouza noted that, "Lieutenant Hartigan appears to have done a great deal of good through his compassionate concern for the less fortunate. He deserves to be commended."
Compassionate as he was, Hartigan was as tough as a cop sometimes must be. He was off duty and ready to retire one Christmas Season night in 1974 when the TV news reported that three young desperados had taken 55 people hostage in a Richfield supermarket. Proceeding to the store instead of to bed, Hartigan found it surrounded by a virtual brigade of snipers, and pleas to the robbers to lay down their weapons and come out were being broadcast through bulhorns. Approaching the officer in charge, Hartigan advised that he knew the robbers and obtained permission to deal with the situation. Entering the supermarket alone and standing at a checkout counter, he shouted his name and said, "All right, Boys, everybody up front, come on, come up here and lay down the guns." They came meekly, and laid down their guns. He marched them out of the store, hands high in the air. A bloodbath had been averted. "They were just scared kids," Hartigan insisted. "They weren't vicious; they weren't going to shoot anyone." For this act, Hartigan was named Minnesota's Police Officer of the Year, and received a fulsome congratulatory letter from then U.S. President Gerald R.Ford.
A memorial mass will be celebrated at the Church of St. Thomas the Apostle, 2914 West 44th Street, Minneapolis, at 10:30 a.m. on Wednesday, February 1.
January 23 '06
Feelin' like arse. I think I'm fighting off whatever Molly was yakking up the last coupla days. Paper says this the "gloomiest day of the year". Well the sun is shining, but other than that, count me in.
We took the chillen skating yesterday afternoon. Now, we are not a hockey family; that is to say, we have nothing against hockey, it's a fine sport, fun to watch, in fact some of my fondest memories are of skipping school and pretending to watch the state high-school hockey tournament. (Yes, I did say pretend...my brothers and all their friends gathered at my folks' house and watched it like fiends and I, in turn, watched all my brothers' friends. To each their own.) Not all my hockey inspired memories are pleasant, however; they don't all involve spying on Matt Nelson in my kitchen and wandering through the Bloomingtom Ice Garden feigning interest in the score when all I really wanted to see was if Tom Chorske was looking at me. (He never was. It was that kind of focus that got him as far as he went, folks. It had nothing to do with the fact that I wasn't worth looking at. At least that's what I tell the shrink.)
No, if I'm being honest, a large reason my own kids don't play the game is because of the giant pile of my brothers' hockey equipment that took over the entire west end of our childhood home from November to March. The stink that emanated from that heap of sweaty breezers...it was so pungent, it literally made your eyes water if you got too close.
I have the nose of a bloodhound to begin with, and I just didn't want that for my own home. That's not the only reason, mind you, it's not all just me being selfish...there was the time Billy took a stick to the face that drove his four front teeth right through the roof of his mouth. He laid on the couch for a week with his arm flung over his eyes, twitching. He never made any sounds, just twitched like a cockroach in a puddle of Raid for seven days straight. When he was able to talk again, he told us that all the narcotics our mom was pumping into him only kept the pain to a dull roar. Add in Miguel, who's a basketball kind of feller, and there you go.
We are red-blooded Minnesotans, however, so we try and take the kidlets out on the ice a few times each winter...but compared to most everyone else out there, we're a pretty motley crew. Finny's brave enough that he just barrels full steam ahead and damn the torpedoes, he's gonna have fun no matter what. He's the same way on the snowboard; it doesn't matter if he can't do it, he's gonna do it anyway. Helmets are paramount when it comes to Finbar. Meg, I actually made an effort to teach to skate when she was littler, but she was the only one I had back then so I had the time and inclination to help a three-year-old find her feet. Molly...well, I guess the whole purpose of this long-winded intro is my attempt to try and explain away why she cannot skate a lick and seems to have no interest in learning how. Watching her flop around on the ice made me feel the way I did when Meg once asked, "Who's Elvis?"; like a failure as a parent. She gave up quickly and just sat splayed out on the little rental sled looking like she'd been shot, not only could she not be bothered to skate, she wouldn't even sit up. You may be asking yourself, "Didn't Molly just get over the barfs?" Yes, that's true, but she had plenty of energy to bark directions and bellow for cocoa and run me into the ground until 10:30 last night. I put her in bed at 7:15 because I worried she still might be feeling icky, and she spent the next three hours doing the long version of "And I am Telling You I'm Not Going".
During her act's pauses, we did manage to watch Hustle and Flow (though we had to do the dive-across-the-room-turn it-off-turn-it-off-turn-it-off every time we heard her coming back down the stairs, which as I say, was every 4 minutes,) and it was good. You don't have to like rap to like the movie, and Terrance Howard is great in it. He'll break you heart.
I have to go get some stuff done before the coffee-induced energy coursing through my veins wears off and I have to take a nap.
January 21, '06
Eleven o'clock last night, all the little girls have been returned to their homes, babies are tucked into bed, I finally put my feet up for some mindless channel surfing (don't mean to make you cry for me, Argentina, I did spend the afternoon at the movies, review below; if I ever meet Woody Allen I'm soooo gonna live with him for years and then run off with his adopted daughter at the last minute, all because of Match Point) and Meg creeps into the room.
"Mom?"
"Hmm...why're you still up, hon..."
"Molly's barfing."
waa waaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaa.....
Uf Da, or as Molly likes to say, "Fooftaly!" (She once combined 'finally' with 'uf da' and we've been sayin' it ever since.)
She had indeed, yakked on everything within a three-foot radius around her. Cleaned her up, poor little shaky thing, tucked both girls into my bed and scrubbed her room down. She was sick all night and shows no signs of stopping, and here it is almost noon, poor tweety.
Feeling very refreshed today, and my house smells great.
January 20 still, but nighttime
I've got a basement full of little girls watching a movie and eating popcorn, I just finished folding 5 baskets of laundry and Mike is down at Lake Calhoun watching the pond hockey tourney with Steve, who's in town to do a story on it.
Saw Match Point this afternoon. It has been getting rave reviews, people, rave reviews.
Snoozerella. Honestly, perhaps the dullest movie I've ever seen. It was Fatal Attraction without any of the good parts.
Brokeback was dull, it wasn't even in the same ballpark of dullness as Match Point. And they were both better than Narnia.
Lest you think it's me, that I just can't be pleased, cinematically speaking, I liked Casanova, thought it was lots of fluffy cotton candy fun. Oliver Platt is tres fabulouso in it.... Speaking of that flick, Sienna Miller is on the cover of Interview this month...when I first started getting Interview I thought it was ridiculous, now, of course, I can't live without it. Anyway, I've decided I love Sienna, she's my favorite starlet dujour...she's got a very cool vibe and she's talented to boot, and it's been a while since there was a young up-n-comer I was excited about. (I felt that way about Scarlett Johannsen, too, and to be fair, She was the best thing in the movie today.)
Cold in my ears, stabbing pains in both of 'em.
N'kay, I 've had enough people ask me why this website is called Yucky Salad With Bones, and I guess it's time to tell the tale:
One night at dinner, when Meg was about 4, I made a salad out of curly endive. She looked at it and asked me what this new weird kind of salad was called, since for the most part, we're a romaine sort of people, and I said, "I don't know, it doesn't have a special name, it's just salad," and she took a bite of it and said, "Hmmm...maybe yucky salad with bones."
© Katie McCollow, 2006
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