Slumgullion

Nature's power

2010-12-12T17:27:00.000-08:00

Snoqualmie Falls in the mist zone.

Nature's beauty

2010-12-12T17:02:00.000-08:00

The beauty of Snoqualmie Falls during a break in the storm...

Ann's Thanksgiving surprise!

2010-11-25T12:49:00.000-08:00

Ann had a little surprise for us on Thanksgiving... see what you think!

weather weenie video

2010-11-23T10:56:00.000-08:00

I know you think I'm a weather weenie -- guilty as charged and if you're going to admit to something, this ain't bad to cop to -- so here's the proof looking out our back porch, today. And our back porch is around 20 miles east of Seattle.

Ann joins the circus

2010-11-15T19:40:00.000-08:00

6 days into recovery and Ann has decided to run away and join the circus. Here's her audition video for Cirque du Soleil's new show, "RampArts" -- she'll be appearing under the stage name, "The Dancing Ramp Girl."

Sponge Ann Square Pants

2010-11-14T23:30:00.000-08:00

OK… think about this for a minute. What two-word combinations conjure up images that simply cannot be explained? I don't mean you can't explain them -- I mean you don't have to. Either you get them or you don't -- no amount of explanation will get you much farther down the road than you were when you first heard them: "home run", "happy hour", "dip stick", "fat chance", "sponge bath"… like that. And, I don't know about you, but my experience has been that "dip stick", "fat chance" and "sponge bath" all seem to happen in the same sentence, in relative close proximity.

So when Nurse Discharge was going over the instructions it was kinda like: "… schedule her meds, elevate the legs, ice for twenty minutes -- sound fades out… droning sounds fade in… Charlie Brown sentence compression kicks in… blah blah blah… sponge bath… blah blah blah… WHOA, HIT REWIND!"

Of course you can't actually say, "Hit rewind" because then everyone knows you'd dropped off around page 9, so you go back in with the "Really, I was paying attention but your instructions weren't clear" clarifier: "Now, just to be clear, with the sponge bath it doesn't have to be done with an actual sponge" was all I could come up with before we moved on to page 10. Lame, I admit… but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

Nurse D. pauses like maybe she's clarified this before with some other husband and then "No if you want to soap up your tongue and use that, you can" is what I thought she said -- woulda bet money on it -- but then Ann pipes up and says, "We've got plenty of washcloths, it won't be a problem." Washcloths? How'd we jump the track and start plowing up the siding?

Anyway, you say "sponge bath" to a guy and he -- which is to say, "me" -- goes right to the soft music, low lights, some kind of French washy thingie they don't sell here because it's illegal in all Southern States, maybe a grape or two rolling around… you know, a HOLLYWOOD sponge bath. One that does NOT include any help from your adult daughter the elementary school teacher who has no shortage of helpful lesson plans already mapped out in her head and delivers them like you're sitting in the time-out corner, or the cat whose sole job is, apparently, to provide down-field blocking so you can trip over him while you're running down the hallway with a soapy washcloth in one hand and a rinser cloth in the other as your wife calls out, "Don't forget the other towel". And not one damn grape anywhere in sight.

Icing, on the other hand, is an entirely different nuance. Here, everyone's an expert and everyone knows how you should do it and is willing to give you legion of advice, which is very handy because none of them are ever around when you need them. And let's be clear -- there's really not that much advice to give me about ice -- you wanna be helpful, start filling up them ice bladders and shut up the hell up about how it's easier with an ice machine (I ain't got one, ain't gonna get one, thanks for the helpful tip), how the gel-packs are better because they're re-freezable so I'm reducing my carbon footprint by not using energy to make ice (a: I have two words for you and one of them IS "you" and 2: it only takes the gel-packs around 9 days to refreeze, so that's pretty handy), and finally -- and most importantly (I know this is a run-on sentence, Mrs. Waldrop didn't like them, either), I got six ice bladders, each of which take 22 ice cubes from our refrigerator's ice maker, so do the math and tell me how much ice I'll have left over after each knee icing to make myself a 20oz rum and coke and keep it at a constant temperature of around 47 degrees for no less than 20 minutes. Myers, if it matters.

In case you want to be especially helpful, Ann has her meds at 2:30am and so far I've been setting the alarm clock on my iPhone, but if you're going to be up, you can call me and make sure I didn't sleep through it -- like I did Saturday morning, which got me kicked off the Christmas list. Again, Myer's if you're fronting for Santa, Captain Morgan's if you're not.

Day Three and The Great Escape

2010-11-13T20:52:00.001-08:00

By the time she hit day three of knees replacement, Ann was getting downright cocky with the nurses: "Walk to the water fountain? THAT all you got? The corridor past the fountain? Put a bell on my walker and I'll back this bad boy around the corner at the end of the hall. A loop around the entire floor without a cut-through at the nurses station? This IS supposed to be rehab, right?"

OK, so maybe it was just the drugs talking and the nurses should have known that but I think Ann blew through their sense of humor when she started playing "Flight of the Bumble Bee" on her nurse's call button. Not sure why this harshed their mellow because they were all in the break room and couldn't hear anything. Anyhow, the meds were already an hour late so Ann started working on the "Orange Blossom Express". And apparently there is a "Note to self" section in the chart because the next day, "The Shermanator" arrived.

Sherman is THE physical terrorist (therapist) they run in on you when they want to put you in detention, but all the rooms are full. And Sherm shows up with a list, which looks uncharacteristically customized for E318.

"She has to be able to do certain exercises before she can home -- these let us know where she is in her recovery and what to expect for her rehab. It's pretty standard stuff, really." He shows me the list: the ankle pump, leg dangle, knee bend, heel slide, butt scoot and, of course, the stair climb.

I flip the list over and back and say, "I don't see any jumping jacks, one-arm push-ups, or Chinese splits." He doesn't miss a beat, "Oh, you can add anything you want when you get home, as long as she keeps doing those."

With that he swings into action and has Ann doing tricks like a circus dog. Looks painful as hell and it's all I can do to watch. She's pumping and lifting and bending and dangling and sliding and I'm exhausted. Then we get to the butt scoot -- which, as it turns out, isn't as interesting as you might think.

What happens is, you plant your feet on the floor and scoot your butt off the chair, toward your feet. In the event you understand as little about body mechanics as I do, the net effect is that this causes your knee to bend MORE than it wants to. Way more. Never mind more than YOU want it to.

"Sherman, that looks like it hurts like hell."

"Oh, yeah -- it's like your knee is giving birth to a kangaroo." Interesting. Would that be anything like ME hitting YOUR thumb with a two-pound sledge hammer while shaving your head with cheese grater?

But the Shermster is ecstatic and has been won over to Ann's side -- "She's gone from 83 degrees to 104 degrees!" Yeah, well, I figured she's be hot about THAT little piece of torture. He says, "No, her range of motion is great… fabulous… she's blowing my doors off."

Easy boy… back it up there, pilgrim . I got seniority and then there's our tom-cat and then the kid down the street she keeps buying cookie dough from, not to mention the guy with the cute butt who cleans our windows that the neighbor lady comes over to watch.

Next is the stair climb and I figure we got this one cooked because a) we don't have any stairs plus which I just got through b) installing a twelve foot all-metal ramp to get her over the three steps to our living room. Rules are rules, though and we need to practice the stairs, just in case. Just in case what, she moves in with the window cleaning guy?

So, today is the big day and we're got all our prescriptions, had two or three social workers stop by setting up physical therapy, and got our final debriefing from the nurse about what not to do under virtually any circumstance -- which essentially boils down to "Whatever you do, don't fall".

Then it's time for me to start hauling out clothes, leg braces, ice packs, bandages, leg supports, paper work, plus all the really cool stuff like water jugs, puke trays, stolen towels, ice buckets… like that. Erica decided if someone could have a harp in their room there was no reason for us to bring Ann flowers when a Christmas tree would look just fetching, so that had to go last (no, I'm not making this up).

And I'm making my first trip in the elevator when a very nice young girl in scrubs (I dunno, 23, 24 years old?) looks at me and says with a smile, "So, today's the big day, eh?" And I say, "Yeah, The Great Escape." You know how it is when you invoke something that has a mutual commonality to it, there's an INSTANT bond with the other person? She nods, enthusiastically -- she gets it, we have a connection. And she says, "Yeah, The Great Escape. That's the one where James Dean jumps his motorcycle over the fence, right?" Yup. And then he races through the streets of Saigon and picks up Linda Blair at the Bates Motel.

We're home, we're on drugs, we may or may not answer the phone, but if you want to deliver food please make it something we don't have to fight the cat for, he's a lot faster than he looks.

Day Two

2010-11-13T20:51:00.003-08:00

Dateline Bellevue, WA: After a detailed progress report on the hospital's primary research and development project, the Board of Directors of Oversight Hospital are pleased to announce that at 0945 PST, Ann Acton peed. In related news, attending physician Dr. Ewebee Copay reports that Ms. Acton, using only a walker, two assistants, and three Volkswagen-sized helium balloons, was able to walk to the nurse's station to analyze the nutritional value of Jello shots in the vacuum packs. Informed of this unexpected turn of events and its obvious implications, President Obama named Ms. Acton to his blue-ribbon panel for hospital reform on primary-color foods saying, "This is extraordinary progress, but we can do better -- we must do better, for the sake of our country, for the sake of our children, and the sake of starving husbands everywhere."

So, in the event you didn't check CNN today, we (and by "we" I mean "Ann") made HUGE-O progress. She walked well before she was expected to, did so before physical therapy, and basically blew the doors off the staff, several of whom stopped by to congratulate her on extraordinary progress for a double knee procedure. She's determined, tough, focused and scared the hell out of me -- I keep watching her thinking, "Could I do that?" Answer, not without a LOT more drugs, less ice in the rum and a significantly higher proof rate, say… 151 and in the higher latitudes.

But if you really want to be the BMOC, show up with someone who is having a double and everyone else looks like bed-wettin' commies -- the staff even smirks at them in group. I didn't say YOU had to be the one having the double to swagger into group, nod at the wife and roll your eyes at the future former Mr. Macho grunting through only one side of exercises, thinking he was hot stuff until the Babe With The Double showed up.

"Class, we have a new comer to the group. Her name is Ann, she had a double procedure yesterday, has already gone to the bathroom all by herself, walked down the hall in her walker THIS morning and then did The Grand Central Station double dutch rope-jumping trick before coming down here; she is the only patient in the hospital going through a double right now and while I know these exercises are difficult and extremely painful, if any of you one-knee slackers bails on their reps today, President Obama has personally authorized Ms. Acton to bitch-slap you back into your rooms. Are there any questions?"

After the introductions a 75-year old gal says to Ann, "You're having TWO done at the same time? This hurts so bad that if I ever need the other one done, I'm going to drink more vodka, take hands full of Vicodin and learn how to limp, instead." And I think that about sums up why Ann isn't doing this more than once.

So, just before dinner the entire Acton clan (all three of us) are gathered around the bed (OK, two people cannot gather AROUND a bed occupied by a third, but when the obits say "He died surrounded by his family", don't you ever wonder if he was trying to get away at the time?). Anyhow, we're chatting away when Erica casually fobs off, "Hey, a six-foot harp just went by."

You know, you reach a point in your life when you start questioning your own first-hand experience: Was the light red? Did I lock the back door? Have my pants been unzipped ALL day? But when your adult daughter drops a six-foot harp on you, discretion requires you go through all the permutations before you take a turn down "What the Hell Lane?"

This is a good time to mention that when Erica was eight-years old she charged into our bedroom at 2am, threw her cat overhand onto the bed and screamed, "There's a bird in my room, there's a bird in my room." To this day, I contend that was the night my atrial fibrillation began. Bird in my room… harp in the hallway. You'll excuse me if I remain seated.

So, I'm thinking, "what could she possibly have REALLY said?" Harp… umm, carp -- could be… carp kinda sounds like harp if you're not expecting either. I wasn’t expecting a bird and that rhymes with stuff you don't want to see at 2am.

But a six-foot harp or a six-foot carp seem equally unlikely, so either Overlake's nuclear medicine department is leaking into a local stream or Erica's fourth graders have driven her to hallucinogens. And about that time my wife says, "blah blah blah left over muffin blah blah blah" which the male brain interprets as "Squirrel" and I started chasing the muffin, forgetting all about the harp-carp.

About 20 minutes later, from down the hall, we hear harp music. There is harp music… it's special music (I wouldn't be surprised if it has its own Olympics), it ain't like other music… you ain't ever gonna hear a harp doing "Smoke on the Water" so when you hear harp music it sticks with you like Lawrence Welk doing a cover of Musac tunes. And trust me when I tell you it ain't nothing like carp music.

OK, so we got a harp in the house. Why do we have a harp in the house and whose house is it in? I'm dispatched from East 318 and upon investigation, discover said aforementioned harp in East 315 doing a set in a private room. And let me tell you when you stuff a concert harp into a private hospital room, you have just enough room to go outside and change your mind. I was going to ask when the jugglers were showing up but just as I was forming the words, the harpist moved into a medley of Michael Bolton and I was starting to feel suicidal.

By the time I got back to the room, Ann was strapping on her leg braces again and I thought she was going to make a break for it… turns out she was just showing off again, going for another spin around the floor with her tattooed boy-toy med-tech.

Tomorrow is Day Three and I hope something happens to break the tedium.

Day One

2010-11-13T20:51:00.001-08:00

Ann's doing fine, though she is frankly going through a bloody fortune in perfectly good margarita ice which could otherwise be put to better use for all concerned. Ice is ice and cold is cold and ice on the knees or margaritas in the belly seem an even match to me, though admittedly a doctorate in law does not give me the right to prescribe drugs and so much the worse for society. Trust me, if lawyers could prescribe drugs, everyone would like them a lot more.

Ann slept most of the day, waking up every now and then to inquire about the time; I'd check my watch and tell her and then she'd look puzzled as hell and pass out again. I didn't notice until the third or fourth rotation of "What time is it?" that the clock on the wall she could see hadn't been set back from Day Light Savings and was an hour ahead. And when I finally figured out what was going on, I was too far in to confess I hadn't looked at the clock on the wall when I told her what time it was, so I did the honorable thing and just kept lying to her. It was kinda like our own little time travel experiment -- we're both in the same dimension but at different times. Still, I gotta bust a move tomorrow morning and change the clock before she sobers up.

Turns out they have a copy of the Geneva Convention at the hospital and decided to put her in solitary confinement and not walk her around today. Frankly, much relief on my part given her level of anesthesia -- all I could see in my head was a clip of Buster Keaton hanging off the hands of that clock. She did get nauseous once and told the nurse she didn't want to do a Linda Blair. This was nothing short of brilliant given her condition. The nurse -- apparently all of 12-years-old -- looked at both of us and said, "Who is that?" How do you explain Linda Blair to someone who isn't as old as your belt?

Tomorrow is physical therapy at 9AM followed by group therapy at 1PM. OK, I get physical therapy: "Alright, now sit up, bend your knees, and stop screaming." But group therapy -- what could possibly be going there?

"Hello, my name is Ann, and I'm a knee abuser."

"Hi, Ann"

"I've been a knee abuser for years and am here to break the cycle of abuse."

"Welcome, Ann."

"I'm here because I know time takes time and patience takes patience and what I really want to do is spend the rest of my life gardening so I'll have a beautiful place to bury the body of the scum sucking rat-face liar that talked me into this surgery."

"Right on, girl friend -- if you're making a list, here's ours, too."

"Thank you -- fear is the opposite of faith and I have faith we can track these people down and...

OK, maybe it won't go exactly like that, but I'm just saying that no good can come to any group making decisions while wearing Percocet prescriptions folded into party hats.

I'll see if I can't sneak something out to you during the day - I know many of you have money on how long I am going to last as the primary care-giver and I don't want to skew the odds of the pool by holding back information.

Here We Go!

2010-11-13T20:50:00.001-08:00

OK, kids... get out your prayer rugs and worry beads, Ann goes in tomorrow morning (the 9th) for 1.5 knee replacements (math wasn't my strong suit, but I keep wondering how many times 1.5 goes into 2 and what's left over). We check into the hospital at 5:30AM -- yes, I thought that was a misprint too -- and Doctor Copay floats in around 7:30AM for some pre-game tailgating.

Apparently the most important thing for the team to agree on during the pre-game is which knee is the "1" and which is the ".5", with a tie vote going to the insurance company rep who will be checking regularly to see if our premiums are still current and thus whether Ann's stitches will be close together or far apart (Lesson: read the fine print in your policy, it's all important).

Three or four hours later, depending on who you ask and whether they had a mop in their hand when you asked, Ann is wheeled into recovery whether they're finished or not -- and they start playing Michael Flatley Irish clogging music so she'll be all jacked up when they FORCE HER TO START WALKING IN THE AFTERNOON... OF TOMORROW! No, that's not a misprint either and I'll be spending some time tonight browsing the Geneva Convention as I'm certain you couldn't treat prisoners of war like that.

It's not entirely clear when she will get to her room but there is an even chance she'll be sharing Suite Gitmo with three other women who have also run afoul of the Geneva Convention. The good news is that with four dopey women on meds, there's an even chance I can fill some prescription orders for you out of their dixie cups so please get your requests in early as she's only going to be there through Saturday morning.

On a more personal note I would like to mention a fondness for lasagna, pizza, Stella Artois, and hot dogs -- none of which I can have now because I'm on a diet but I thought you should know how we used to roll around here and that you could send the occasional porterhouse instead.

Aside from being elected to the position of Primary Caregiver, I have also been nominated as Event Historian and will be tasked with bringing you up-to-the-moment breaking news -- along with selected videos and still shots. This looks like a documentary to me, but then I thought I'd be doing shampoo commercials in my retirement.

ANN'S KNEE REPLACEMENT STARTS HERE

2010-11-13T14:23:00.000-08:00

On November 8th, Ann had a full knee replacement on her left knee and a partial on her right. I'm back filling my blog with the update reports I sent out while she was in the hospital, entitled -- surprise -- Here We Go, Day One, Day Two and Day Three and the Great Escape.

A full-dress Harley in the Mamalahola Rain Forest

2010-01-28T20:01:00.000-08:00

Couple of weeks ago I had an atrial ablation, which is doctor talk for paint-balling around inside your heart with a laser gun. You and I call an irregular heart-beat "atrial fibrillation". Doctors call it a brand new full-dress Harley.

When they tell you about atrial ablation, they spend an inordinate amount of time talking about your heart -- trying to make it relevant for people who say the pledge of allegiance with their hand over their shirt pocket.

Turns out your heart is about the size of a nice Russet potato. It's roughly the shape of Kauai and my problem was in the Mamalahoa Rain Forest. No big deal, I figured they'd go in at Anahola, dodge around a bit in the Kealia Forest and finish up somewhere near Halele'a. I'm on the American plan, so meals and lodging are included.

But they don't spend nearly enough time talking about your crotch which, as it turns out, is all anyone seems interested in once you hit the table. Or the front door. It's kinda like being kidnapped by aliens, beamed up to the mothership and then they do all those weird experiments the Discovery Channel keeps yapping about. Far as I can tell, the big difference is that they didn't kidnap me from a trailer court.

But it would be just my luck that aliens would do the ablation for free if I let them poke around some; and considering what it costs to have humans poke you around, I'm ready to add that to the health care bill. Republicans may not want to cover aliens, but I'm saying we go the other way -- include them as providers and they'll soon lose interest in Earth. God knows the politicians have.

Anyway, I check in and nurse #1 welcomes me to the hospital, gives me a clothing bag roughly the size and shape of a boy scout overnight pack and says, "Put all your clothes in here, including your shoes and don't forget to take off your underwear -- you're going into a sterile environment." Confirming I understand, "I AM a sterile environment -- I've already had a vasectomy." Apparently she's heard that one before.

Mom always said I should wear clean underwear in case I got hit by a car and had to go to the hospital. This logic, incidentally, has always been lost on me. Say I'm laying on a gurney and they call my mom: "Mrs. Acton, we're sorry to tell you that Joe's been hit by a car and is at Providence Hospital. He's been in surgery for three and half hours, has lost 6 pints of blood, has numerous broken bones and massive soft-tissue damage. It's touch and go right now, but his underwear is fresh as a daisy and white as a snowball. You must be very proud of him, it's so hard to instill values in teenagers these days."

So, I've been in my tidy-whities no more than 45 minutes from feet down and now my undies are laying in the bottom of a bag and I'm parading around in my very own dressing room wearing the latest in 1952 bedroom apparel, complete with skid-proof sock slippers which are easily three sizes too small. I got my shirt on backwards and my bathrobe on frontwards, the distinction between the two being which one you put on first.

I present myself to the world whereupon nurse #2 makes her approach, takes the bag and says, "Did you take off your under-wear?" I go for an ice-breaker, "Oh, they were serious about that?" No ice-breaker. Long stare. "Yeah, they're in the bag. At the bottom. In a shoe. Left, I think."

She quick-marches me down the hall to nurse #3 who does the weigh-in and then asks, "Are you wearing underwear?" "No, I took them off and threw 'em out the window about 15 minutes ago." Geez, what's the big deal, I mean don't they cut people's underwear off them everyday? Does no one here watch "E.R."? It ain't like I came in wearing chain mail.

Next stop, I.V. Land. I'm escorted to a plush recliner where they push it back so I'm nice and comfy for Ms. Needles. About 5 minutes later a brand new nurse hurries over to me with a blanket and says, "Would you like a nice warm blanket?"

"Not really, thanks, it's plenty warm in here and I sweat easy."

"Yes" she says, "But you're going to want something for modesty."

"Say, what?"

"Well, with your legs up, umm...." and she glances down and stops talking.

Are you kidding me? Seriously? 20 minutes ago I showed up in nicely pressed clothes, picture ID, cash copay AND clean underwear, and in the span of less than 10 minutes you're telling me I've morphed into a flasher?

"Yeah, I'll take the blanket and by the way where is this sterile environment that requires me to be running around the hospital, commando?"

"Oh, it's not a sterile environment until you get into the actual surgery suite, but we don't want to inconvenience you by having to remove your underwear in there."

Right... wouldn't want to be inconvenienced in the least when I can qualify for a class "C" felony instead.

So, after I'm all I.V.'d up, they walk me into the surgery suite which has no less than 8 people all masked up and running around like "Duck Soup". They sit me on the operating table and start taking my bathrobe off -- which would have been a prime time to take my underwear off, but never mind -- and a nurse-type shows up with hair clippers and declares she's going to shave my chest. Shave a bald guy's chest. Is there no humanity left in the world? What's next, the inside of my ears?

She shaves my chest and then announces, "I also have to shave your 'privates'."

My privates? "I'm pretty sure after the I.V. suite incident and the 8 people in this room, it's safe to call them my 'publics'."

Everyone laughs. I'm finally a hit. And just about the time I'm ready to really get rolling, they tell me to count backwards from 100 and I make it to just about 100.

Four hours later I'm waking up in recovery with a Basque separatist in the bed next to me, who had a hip replacement with a spinal block, is not one bit groggy and will not shut up about how great it is to be Basque and what a raw deal they got from Spain or France or Iceland or some damn place.

Somebody give these people their independence so he can shut up and get out. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in my room. Basqueless. Quiet. Free. So this is what he was talking about. Me likee.

I'm drifting in and out of the now, pretending to pay attention to either my wife or daughter depending on who is trying to You Tube me.

"Mom, make him count up by three's again, that just kills me."

"Honey, you look really bad... how about a nice ice chip?" says the wife. Yeah, but just the one please... I don't want my lips to come completely unstuck.

Somewhere along the consciousness continuum Dr. House sweeps in, declares me in great shape for guy with a mid-size SUV parked on his chest and sweeps out to visit the other contributors to his next European ski vacation. I can't help but notice he leaves behind a smaller female human-like unit all dressed in green and carrying stuff... a clipboard, rubber gloves, stethoscope, rubber gloves, a towel (uh?... a towel?), rubber gloves, a plastic jug (never good).... She only has so many hands but in every one of them she seems to be carrying rubber gloves... the natural enemy to all men -- kinda like running water is to the Corps of Engineers.

"After we remove your catheter, Doctor wants you to give us a urine sample" and she sets the plastic jug down.

"What catheter?"

"They put a catheter in during surgery."

"Into what?"

"Into you."

"Are you in the right room?"

Just to show off, she pulls the sheet back a little so I can see a rubber tube running down the side of the bed... the significance of which doesn't really cut through the fog until she pulls the sheet ALL the way back and I see where it goes. INTO me. Holy crap! Are you kidding me, again?

I'm still doped up but I ain't THAT dopey.

"I think you need to get the doctor back in here right away because there's been a BIG mistake. HUGE mistake. I mean, they were supposed to run catheters up the VEINS in both legs but no one said they were going in through my whosits, with THAT thing. And how'd they get it into my heart from there -- the whosit doesn't connect to the heart, does it?"

"Not in most men, no." Oh, HA! Comedy!

When they were describing the lovely island of Kauai, no one mentioned there was going to be a drainage problem over on the Big Island. And while I'm thinking this, she snaps on a set of rubber gloves and does what seemed to be a very detailed inspection of the "entry sites" as I now know them.

I figure it's only polite to try for some small talk while she has her head stuck into my crotch so I say, "I notice that everyone who comes in here seems to be really interested in my crotch, but nobody seems at all interested in my chest, which is where all the action was, right? Shouldn't somebody be aiming a stethoscope or something at me?"

"We don't need to do that because of the heart monitor."

"What heart monitor?"

"The one you're wearing."

"Are you sure you're in the right room?

Then to show off again, she says, "This heart monitor" and reaches into my shirt pocket and pulls out a portable heart monitor complete with wires stuck all over me, like gum on a sidewalk. It's like I've been slapped. I nearly jump when I see it.

"Where did THAT come from?"

"It's been on you since surgery. Why do you think your shirt was all pulled over to one side?"

"I dunno, I thought the gown was out of alignment and it just naturally pulled to the right."

"The unit fits in your pocket because it's wireless and we monitor you from the desk out front."

"What happens if I roll over onto the monitor?"

"You won't like it very much."

"I already don't like it very much, but will it come undone or something?"

"No, but if it does we'll come back in and hook it up again."

"But how will you know if it comes undone?"

"Well, the leads will stop working"

"So I'll look dead from out there?"

"No, you'll look unhooked."

"Doesn't "dead" look a lot like "unhooked"?"

"No, it looks like unhooked. Don't worry, we'll know if you're dead." Remember when Hannibal Lecter says, "I'm having an old friend for dinner"? Same feeling.

If marijuana leads to hard drugs and sex leads to kids and one thing leads to another, then it's nearly axiomatic that if you let one nurse look at your publics, you've pretty much signed the waiver for the gawkers tour. I got so used to people I'd never seen gawking me up that when a guy came in around 8PM with a clipboard and started messing with the I.V. unit, I just threw the covers back and pulled up my gown. The guy looks at me and says, "No, man -- I'm just here to do the nightly equipment inventory." Perfect. Now I AM a flasher.

After I'd flashed the inventory guy out the door, a male nurse comes in and says, "Do you want me to remove that catheter?" Is this like a trick question or something? No, I was thinking of naming it and taking it home so my cat will have something to play with while I'm working at my desk.

"I not only want it out, I'll pay extra for it. In fact, I'll give you $100 right now to take it out."

The guy laughs, "Yeah, I hear that a lot. OK, take a deep breath and..." with alarming eye-hand coordination he quickly grabs Little Joe around the neck and with the other hand swiftly pulls the rubber tube out. And this is where that deep breath came in handy because without it they wouldn't have been able to hear me scream across the street and down the block at Starbucks. Maybe only the entire hospital would have heard me. But you give me a deep breath head start and then snap a rubber tube out my whosits and I animate right up.

As he leaves he says, "Now don't forget to leave a urine sample in the plastic bottle." Again, and not to belabor the point, ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I'm never going to pee again. Ever. I'm never drinking water, coca cola, beer, iced tea, nothing - in fact, I may never brush my teeth again, just in the off-chance I accidentally swallow some water.

Saturday I started to sober up in earnest. They gave me a menu with pictures of the meals but it must have been done by the same outfit that does all the escort services in Vegas because the food didn't look anything like the pictures. I'd broken through my vow never to pee again because I discovered they'll bring you any amount of fluids at any time of the day or night just to get you to pee.

Is this the definition of irony or what: if you can't pee, they bring you anything you want to drink; but before the operation, I mean waaaay back when I could pee at will, they wouldn't let me drink anything for 6 hours. Anyway, by Saturday morning I was into recreational peeing, with two different kinds of juices that I mixed into one big cocktail plus two cans of sodas.

When check out time arrived, I expected a group photo with the staff -- at least the gawker unit.... tall people in the back, shorter in the front, one row kneeling, please -- just like high school.

Instead, a single nurse shows up -- and by that I mean only one of them -- and announces she's there for a final examination. Unfortunately, I am completely sober and she's very easy on the eyes and I'm thinking, "This could be problematic -- let's everybody just calm the down, no reason to get excited -- just where are them dead puppies when you need them?"

So, off go the covers, up comes the gown and "snap" go the rubber gloves. And after only an eternity, she glances up and says, "Your groin is excellent." Then glances back and adds, "Professionally speaking."

"When I tell this story... and I will... you can be sure I am NOT going to include the phrase, 'professionally speaking'" I said, proud of my first post-anesthesia come-back.

"For some reason," she smiled "the men never do."

Everything went off like clockwork, the procedure was a success, and I'm fine. But Ferris Bueller was right: life moves kinda fast… you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

You're always a "Who?"

2009-06-25T20:59:00.000-07:00

What a day. Farrah Fawcett dies after a two-year bout with cancer. And then, five hours later Michael Jackson dies after a 10-year bout with karma. But if you're Farrah, you gotta be pissed, don't ya? She finally owns the headlines and doesn’t even get a full news cycle before she's back to "Who?" Ain't that the way it goes? No matter who you are, compared to somebody you're always a "Who?"

Suspended from what?

2009-04-03T18:24:00.000-07:00

One of my more dubious distinctions is that I am a recovering lawyer. When you use the adjective "recovering" with almost any interesting noun there is the implication you might fall off the wagon and start doing whatever it is that you're recovering from. Like ending sentences with prepositions if you are a recovering 8th grade English failure like myself (Report card: "Mr. Acton, I hope you grow rich so someone else will be tasked with sorting through the mess that is your writing, as I am passing you onto the ninth grade and will no longer be available.")

But really, the only thing you can do to recover from being a lawyer is STOP BEING A LAWYER. So, having a fool for a client, I took my own advice last year and decided to go on "inactive status" with the Washington State Bar Association, the local organization otherwise tasked with riding herd on people more interested in arguing about justice than actually preserving it.

Inactive status, as it turns out, does not come cheap, merely cheaper than active status. The insidious plan I had hatched was that for the paltry sum of $144 I would not have to register for nor suffer through another 4-day session of Trusts and Estates at the end of the year to satisfy my mandatory continuing legal education classes. What I know about trusts and estates can be encapsulated thusly: trust no one with an estate, especially if they are dead.

My assumption was that being "inactive" required little more than…well…. not being active. And if I don't put too fine a point on it I rather expected it to work in a relatively self-evident manner: I'd pay the fee, go – or at the very least, become – inactive and kick back every December instead of being jammed into a small conference room with a bunch of other idiots who've also waited until the last minute, spending four days reading USA Today and checking e-mail.

So, imagine my surprise when I received a CERTIFIED letter from the WSBA, admonishing me that I hadn't paid the annual fee to be inactive and was now in danger of being suspended.

Suspended from what? I mean, it's not like "recovering" is it?

I called the bar and was put through to "Arthur" in Member Benefits. Member Benefits? I'll grant you that my suspension would obviously be a benefit to the great unwashed public, but really – which mental giant put it under "Benefits" in the phone tree?

Anyhow, Arthur informs me that I'm on the pre-suspension list and there's a fine to get off the list.

"Arthur, I thought I was inactive, so I'm a little fuzzy on just what happens if I stay on the pre-suspension list.

"Well, your name could be forwarded to the Supreme Court and suspension proceedings could ensue."

"Arthur, maybe I wasn't clear – I'm supposed to be on the inactive list. I've already suspended myself."

"But that's not the same as the Supreme Court suspending you."

"Are you telling me they're going to suspend me from the inactive list?"

"If you don't pay the fine, yes, sir they could."

"And so if they suspend me from the inactive list, does that mean I have to practice law again?"

"I don't understand."

"Well, Arthur, I'm on the inactive list. If they suspend me, that would mean I'm not able to be inactive, so I must be active, right?"

A long awkward pause is followed by,

"Sir, I'm not a lawyer so I can't advise you what your status might be."

"Well, until I called I didn't think I was a lawyer anymore either, but increasingly it looks like I'm not only a lawyer, I'm very likely an active lawyer again. And I can tell you the idea of suspending an inactive lawyer is a little bit like taxing the unemployed."

"Sir, I can help you there – if you're unemployed, we have a deferment plan for your fees."

I gave him my VISA card before my head exploded and I was drafted into the judiciary.

Mac Attack

2009-02-28T12:19:00.001-08:00

Everyone says your first love is the one you measure all others by. You know, you're young, naïve, impressionable – she's on the rebound, desperate and can't hold her liquor. But everyone's full of crap – the love that really stays with you is your first pet. In my case, a MacKenzie River Husky/Wolf hybrid that would have considered Cujo a nice snack and Balto a shameless fraud. In case you're just tuning in, the first love of my life and the standard against which all pets are measured is "Leader the Wonder Dog".

Leader and I were just about the same age – kind of a brother my parents didn't have to house train. He didn't have a name right away – the legend goes – because he hadn't named himself, which made sense to me as a kid because it obviously took him some time to learn how to properly use the crayons after he discovered they weren't edible. Plus which, as everyone knows, dogs have notoriously bad handwriting so I wasn't at all surprised it took some time for him to name himself. At the same time, however, I was suspicious of the whole Santa-Claus-down-the-chimney thing, but Leader not being able to write until he was older was bulls-eye stuff for me.

At any rate, he became "Leader" because he would invariably walk in front of you and seemed to know where you were going at all times. Of course, when you're a kid you don't have any place to go so from a probability and statistics standpoint the dog's topping the scale in the "WOW MOM – you won't believe what Leader did" department. At this point, I feel compelled to disclose I have never scored well in standardized testing, so the dog may not have been all that smart. But then again, if you were one of those Santa-Claus-down-the-chimney chumps, neither were you.

Leader would walk me to the bus, be sitting there waiting when the bus dropped me off, run around the woods with me, chase off other dogs and moose (this was Alaska, so chasing off moose isn't one of those special skills at the bottom of his resume), and slunk off to my room when we were in trouble (again, it wasn't normally Leader that got in trouble, but he'd occasionally take the fall).

This unpainted Norman Rockwell went on until I was 12 when an Army Sgt moved into the area, saw Leader making his rounds one day and shot him, thinking he was wolf. Leader died in my arms a week later and with him died my belief in a lot of things. After we buried Leader, my Dad (to his great credit), wandered down to the G.I.'s house and suggested that if he couldn't tell the difference between a dog and a wolf, my Dad might not be able to keep his own WWII flashbacks under control and could mistake a US Army uniform for a Japanese Imperial Marine's uniform. The guy moved (I suspect my Dad was somewhat less obtuse, but I liked the story as he told it) but it didn't bring Leader back. Nothing did. And if anyone tells you that time heals all wounds, let me assure you it doesn't, it only dulls them.

So, when my wife and daughter announced recently that we should just drop by a pet shelter and look at some cats, warning lights went off. All I could think of was Robbie the Robot, "Danger, Will Robinson. Danger!" We're just looking, kinda interested in what they might have, but we're not going to get anything. OK, well, if that's all it is, I'm in if there's snacks involved. I was promised a hamburger and a Roy Rogers (I like maraschino cherries, so what?) so off we went.

We get to the pound or pet shelter or whatever they're calling pet jails and my first indication that things had changed was that we had to register – fill out paperwork – to see animals no one else wanted. Are you jiving me? I have to apply to look at a throw-away pet – a pet that someone else already didn't want, and I have to apply to see it? R U kidding me?

No, not so much. In fact, "they" take this throw-away pet thingy pretty seriously and don't have much sense of humor about it, either – thank you very much. OK, so now that I've been told I may or may not be qualified to look at a used cat, I'm truly just along for the Scooby snack I was promised.

After a background check with the FBI's NCIC and the TSA's No Fly List, we were granted full access to the pets, but of course, were accompanied by adult supervision. R U jackin' me around? We need a chaperone to LOOK at a fleet of previously owned cats? Which of these doors gets me back into the parking lot?

We're waltzed around some 2 dozen cats or so and none of them are doing anything for me except delaying lunch. Then Laurie The Chaperone says we have one more cat – but he's in quarantine from the other cats because he has FIV. And she says it like I know what that means.

Me: "What's FIV?"
Chaperone: "That's Feline Immunodeficiency Virus."
Me: "Right. What's Feline Immunodeficiency Virus?"
Chaperone: "Well, it's kinda like HIV for cats."
Me: "HIV for cats. You mean the cat tested positive for kitty AIDS?
Chapeone: "No, feline HIV."
Me: "Right. So… ah… Where's your back door?"
Chaperone: "We don't have one."
Me: "Where do you want one?"

OK, I do NOT need to see a cat with HIV or FIV or any other IV. And, incidentally, why would anyone with even below average standardized testing scores want to adopt an FIV cat? Before I can say any of this, I've followed the troop into the quarantine room where this ratty looking cat ("Goliath") about the size of a small Ocelot is curled up in a cage and listening to the dogs in the next room bark. He's a train wreck but without all the excitement.

The dogs are barking so loud you have to actually speak louder to be heard. And not only is the cat FIV, he must also be deaf because the barking isn't fazing him at all. He kinda rolls over, gives us a look and is completely non-plussed. But he and I get eye contact and I think, uh-ho… this ain't just a regular cat. He knows something… he knows the odds are stacked against him – he's kinda sick, they got him off by himself, not many people come in to see him. He knows he probably ain't going anyplace. This is as good as it's going to get for him so "Hello and welcome to my world." And then I made the BIG MISTAKE.

I picked him up. If I hadn't picked him up, he wouldn't have head-butted me in the face or wiped his face all over mine. And then he just kinda relaxed and I realized that for some unknown reason, we just "got" each other. He seemed to know he was going home with us before we did.

Me: "Does he answer to his name?"
Chaperone: "He answers to the can opener."
Me: "Me, too."

Turns out he was a stray and someone gave him the name because of his size. He's about two years old, strong and healthy, and probably picked up the FIV in a fight with another cat. I'd hate to see what the OTHER cat looks like.

Apparently adopting a "special needs" cat takes some soul searching so they made us leave to think things over. I was ready to take him right then and started lobbying for a special parking permit, but the rest of the family suggested we make a show of "thinking it over" during which time we could go to the store and buy all the stuff he'd need.

We picked him up and on the way home named him Mac – for McKinley, the BIG Alaska Mountain. Yeah, I know – it's fashionable to call it Denali these days, but I ain't calling a cat "Den" and besides, I still call Mumbai, Bombay and Myanmar, Burma. And since he won't answer to Mac anyway, why quibble about what they're calling a mountain?

So, Mac is all settled in. Head butts all around, Mr. Calm about everything, happy feet when he gets petted, lays around the house like a dog (hates the bed we bought), and has pretty much taken over the house (we're thinking of putting his name on the mortgage). His fur looks a lot better, he's getting chow he likes and generally has lost that drug-through-a-bird-cage-backwards look.

And as if all of this wasn't weird enough, here's the "bookend", as we like to say in screenwriting: Mac NEVER walks behind you – he ALWAYS walks in front. If I didn't know better, I'd say he wants to be a leader.

I'm leaving some crayons out for him just in case.

Stepping off

2009-01-31T12:28:00.000-08:00

My buddy, Howard, just retired from the journalism biz. I remember someone asked him how long he'd been writing and he thought a moment and said, "Since right at the first grade." And, given he's got two Pulitzers to his name for public service journalism, you gotta believe he knows a little bit about the subject.

But see, that's where you'd be wrong. Howard's laboring under the misapprehension that journalism is supposed to serve the public and protect its interests. That the Fourth Estate is a citizen's check against the other three branches of government, all of which need the open and transparent scrutiny of the press to ensure the survival of our nation's charter. Heady stuff, eh? Hell, Howard's so out of touch he thinks the responsibility of a free press is nothing short of a constitutional right – WOW, just how out of touch can one guy be?

The worst thing about having a friend like him is that you start to believe the same kinds of things he does. But only for 30 or 40 years, or so. Right up to this morning when I realized how out of touch I have become as a result of listening to Howard. Because this morning I read CNN.com, then Fox.com, then MSNBC.com – for content.

What the hell was I thinking?

There were three stories about Rush Limbaugh, two about Sarah Palin, one about Jessica Simpson and not one damn thing about Katrina victims (still waiting, still forgotten about), emergency aid to food banks (they're feeding more people now but with fewer resources), or reallocating resources from foreign to domestic aid (might want to take care of our own people for a change, just a thought).

Limbaugh is a gratuitous gasbag - why the national media gives him any space at all is a mystery to me given he is a RADIO ENTERTAINER. His job is to get more listeners not solve any of the deeply troubling issues facing our nation. He's not concerned about the gross domestic product, he's concerned about the Arbitron Radio Ratings.

The consolation prize to CNN.com running two "front page" stories about Limbaugh is that both were below a hard-hitting piece about the Jessica Simpson "weight controversy". Well, that's a relief. For a second I was concerned that electronic journalism had lost its rudder but I see the ship is well under way and heading full speed into Bligh's Banal Reef.

And speaking of gasbags and the banal, Sarah Palin doesn't have sufficient gravitas to even qualify as a gasbag. The problems facing our nation are not going to be solved by sound-bite leadership, especially from those whose obvious, if unstated intention, is to elevate themselves far beyond both their own competence or potential. When the media follows her every move they endorse the Palin Peter Principle of Politics.

Over 11 million people are unemployed and the major news sites are covering whether Sarah "I can see Russia from here" Palin is angling a new committee for support in a 2012 run at the Presidency? Really? Seriously, that's the highest and best use of your "news hole"?

My normal admonition is that the list of insufficiencies isn't endless but it is impressive. But the list is clearly long enough that it should at least push the Simpsons, Limbaughs and Palins off the home pages of "serious" new sites. I'm just saying that if you want people to take you seriously, you need to act seriously – or at the very least, responsibly.

So, I'm out. I'm stepping off. I'm buying a production grade camera for Indie and documentary work and I'm stepping the hell off. I'm going to make my little movies and let the next-gen step up. Call me back when the rest of the country gets as serious as Obama.

Meanwhile, my home page is going to rotate between the Hollywood Reporter, Variety and IMDB Pro. Yeah, Hollywood is a world of fantasy and banality. But at least the trades don't pretend it's something else.

Howard, you're on your own!

10 minutes with Lucy

2009-01-24T21:39:00.000-08:00

Somewhere along about 3.18 million years ago a homely but memorable girl apparently passed to her reward and went to meet the Great Hominid in the sky. Then, in 1974 while I was running around Nicaragua stumbling over burial mounds with a Harvard archeologist, Donald Johanson looked up a ravine in Ethiopia on his way back to camp and met the most important girl in his life: Lucy.

Lucy is now visiting the Seattle Science Center and today, after kicking back for the past 35 years or so in Ethiopia, she's making her rock-star tour of the US. Some museums are boycotting her for what seem entirely reasonable and utterly incomprehensible reasons. Fortunately, Seattle decided to give her a look and I got in today when the door opened.

I expected to find Lucy just inside with a sign that said something roughly the equivalent of, "Joe, you been waiting 30 years, this way to Lucy." No go, no sign, they didn't even know I was Joe. What I got instead was a large exhibit on the history of Ethiopia, a place about which I knew little and cared less. Where's Lucy? was the only thing in my head. Ethiopia happened to be the map coordinates, but let's be clear – when Lucy lived there it wasn't called Ethiopia, so why do I care what it's called now. Where the hell's Lucy?

You in the Gold coat, where's Lucy?
I gotta go through the Ethiopian Chamber of Commerce exhibition first?
Far out, where is it?

First exhibit: Jews came to Ethiopia and blah blah with exhibits, artifacts, and photos.
Where's Lucy?
Next exhibit: Christians came to Ehtiopia and blah blah with exhibits, artifacts and photos.
Yeah, so where's Lucy?
Next exhibit: Muslims came to Ethiopia and blah blah with exhibits, artifacts and photos.
Next exhibit: Halie Sallasie came to Ethiopia and blah blah with exhibits and photos.
Cool, so we're getting the band back together, where the hell's Lucy?

By this time I was at the head of the First Pack of Lucy Lookers and must have looked desperate because a Gold Coat caught my eye. I raised my hands palm up like, "Where". He points down a hall and says, "Up two ramps – you'll be the first today."

The sign at the ticket booth was clear, "No food, drinks, or photography." Not a word about running. Feet, do your thing.

I blew past Gold Coat ignoring his plea to slow down, up two long ramps where people would later be waiting to get in. Right up to the armed guard where I broke stride and walked into the Lucy exhibit. Up to where she lay – a mandible and six skull bones, along with 40% of her skeleton.

All alone. Me and her. By myself. For 10 minutes I was the only one there and it gave me chills.

I'd seen history. Hell, I've lived through history.

But I'd never seen mankind. Never seen THE antecedent. Never stood that close to both ends of the evolutionary process.

It doesn't matter if you believe in God or not, according to the exhibit the Ethiopians have you covered no matter what your persuasion might be. But whether God did it or evolution did it, standing next to Lucy will convince you that something extraordinary happened in the woodlands of Ethiopia and you and I are the benefactors. I'm pretty sure Lucy didn't have a cell phone but am equally certain that without her, neither would I. Or you. That's the funny thing about evolution - or God - there doesn't seem to be a destination. But it's a hell of a journey.

Oh, look -- it's the horizon!

2009-01-21T10:45:00.000-08:00

Today, I think I know my grandfather a little better. He remembered the first telephone, the first airplane, the completion of the Panama Canal, the influenza pandemic of 1917, first radio show, Lindbergh's flight, and the first "talkie". And I always wondered if it made him feel old or privileged.

I've lived through the Alaska earthquake, the first man on the moon, the first personal computer, first cell phone, and the inauguration of the first black President of the United States.

I'm going with "privileged".

Film School Tuition: $8.50

2009-01-19T13:22:00.000-08:00

I actually met a "producer" who told me she had never seen "The Sting". She was one of the "creatives" at a production company (now defunct for reasons which will be self evident) and had button-holded me at a film festival I'd won for screenwriting.

"Yeah, "The Sting" was made before I was born and I knew that since everyone already knows the plot, why waste my time with a movie that'll never be remade?"

I have a tendency to fall silent when I think I've dropped a verb, so she comes back with, "Know what I mean? It's not relevant. The actors aren't relevant anymore. The shooting technology isn't relevant anymore. The plot can't be redone again. It's just sooo not relevant to modern filmmaking."

I told her I was feeling a little light-headed because of all the excitement and thought I might throw up. On her. Any second. Maybe I should go to bathroom while you go text somebody. My best guess is that after her production company went down she would have graduated at the top of her barista class.

You try to put people like her out of your head because there are plenty of stereotypes in Hollywood and there's no reason to beat up on blondes anymore than you have to. But after seeing "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" I'd kinda like to get her take on it.

So let me put the record straight before I get off on a rant: I think "Benjamin Button" is a spectacular movie, and I'll be astonished if it's not a multiple nominee: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Cinematography, Best Adapted Screenplay, spring quickly to mind.

And yet, I get the impression that my "Stingless" producer may been writing movie reviews between her Starbuck's shifts given some of the comments I've seen in the trades.

The one that got me onto this soapbox was a well respected critic who observed that the "Benjamin Button storyline just isn't the way life plays out." Or, "the plot was so contrived...." Really? Life doesn't play out in reverse? A movie about the metaphors of life is contrived? WOW – SNAP – dude, like... NFW.

Much easier to grasp that Dinosaurs can be reconstituted from an 80 million-year-old DEAD mosquito; that aliens would attack and kill off 85% of us before Will Smith flies an alien spacecraft to the mother ship to upload a computer virus to it; or how about this one: that a sitting US President would go on national TV to say he's prepared to go door-to-door to "get the guns" WHILE running for a second term. Yeah, that's gonna happen. Let's get down on this Skippy: ALL movies are contrived – there, I said it – go get the nails and cross. They have a name for movies that aren't contrived – they're called newspaper articles.

But let's get to the rave part: "Benjamin Button" is really not best described at all – it's a movie that has to be seen to be appreciated, on any level. Civilians may or may not enjoy it – it can be a downer if you don't get past the top level of the story – but filmmakers have to see this in the same way they had to see "Jurassic Park". It's a game changer. It may not change the way you look at films, but it will change what you think you can do as a filmmaker.

The game changer here is the cinematography in concert with the lighting. It's just breathtaking. Most filmmakers sit in the audience, smug in their own arrogance, "I could do that if I had their money." I sat there completely blown away wondering, out loud: "How the hell'd they do THAT?" Rule: your wife will move away from you in a crowded theater, and take her popcorn with her.

Yeah there was some minor vignetting and the CGI really pulled the premise together, but so what? The camera work and lighting support were like paint brushes in the hands of a modern impressionist. In fact, I'm not at all certain that isn't what I saw, a modern impressionist at work. The framing – especially in the Russian sequences – is a study in how to do it. You can go to film school or buy the books and read about dissecting the image into thirds, then sixths. OR you could go through the house looking for loose change, put $8.50 down at the box office and get a cheap seminar in how it's supposed to be done.

And poor Brad Pitt. First he's sleeping with Jennifer Aniston and hanging out with Clooney et al, and now he's sleeping with Angelina Jolie and has become the modern Steve McQueen. The guy can't buy a break.

No matter what you thought of Pitt's chops before this movie (and I thought he was fine in action-comedy and comedies), he now owns the title as the new dramatic minimalist. Jason Bourne is fine when he's masquerading as Matt Damon (not a typo), but Pitt's depth is simply astounding. What directors worship about McQueen, they have in spades with Pitt: he speaks with his body – he gives you another level of performance beyond what you get with dialogue. Suddenly you've got character definition that's both horizontal in scope and vertical in depth.

With a lot actors – movie stars especially – what you often get is someone pretending to be the character – and let's not talk method vs. technique here, just the net effect of what winds up on the screen. What Pitt gives in "Benjamin Button" is a full-on portrayal of a character that isn't Pitt-like in carriage, manner or legacy. As Pitt regresses in age, it is astonishing to see his mannerisms regress to an earlier age as well; like it or not, a guy carries himself differently at 50 than at 30 than at 15. And Pitt nails those differences as though he WERE those ages, not merely pretending to be them.

The new McQueen is subtle, nuanced, and powerful – just like the old one. Pitt is one of those rare Hollywood leading men that have made a seamless transition from movie star to actor – and I can't wait for hell to freeze over so I can work with him.

"Benjamin Button" is a movie about life and it's expectations and how they slam up against the reality of your own situations. And whether you are at a point in your life where this film has resonance, if you are a filmmaker you need to see it. I'm not asking you to like it because most filmmakers don't like any film – we often get lost in the minutia and lose the journey of the film.

But if filmmaking is anything, it's subjective and self-centered: you don't make films so other people will like them or you, you make them because you have something to say and don't much give a damn what others think.

Which is why "Button" is a must-see for filmmakers: the movie stands for the proposition that life is subjective, live it as you will, live it as you can. And the film itself is such a study of the art of filmmaking it is difficult to imagine we all can't steal --- errr – learn from it.

The bling blog

2009-01-11T15:50:00.000-08:00

Back when I was 25 and smart, the only filmmaker I knew was a pornographer. I didn't like him, he didn't like me and it all seemed to work in a nice harmonious symbiosis given he was a felon and I was a member of the local constabulary. But at least he had cameras, film, movies and a resume – which is more than most "filmmakers" have today. Now, all you need is a web site, a blog and, in the extreme, a Kinkos business card. If you're really showing off, maybe a whole box of them.

I mention this inasmuch as I can't help but notice that this looks alarmingly like a blog; I already have a web site, I'm well past a box of business cards, and my popularity on IMDB is waaaay below Pia Zidora, largely considered the drum majorette of Hollywood's walking dead. In fact, my popularity is even below actors who have actually been dead longer than I've been alive (for instance: Leslie Howard, "Gone with the Wind", killed in WWII; bummer – maybe if he'd lived longer his numbers wouldn't be so good). So I guess the good news is that as a writer-director -- not actor -- I'm only compared with other filmmakers nobody's heard of either. I think this comes under the heading of "small consolation".

Anyhow, my wife announced she's tired of waiting for the bling and that I needed to kick this puppy up a notch, "Start a blog, it'll help you write your screenplays." This strikes me as roughly the equivalent of Jeff Gordon riding a bicycle to the track, but I get her point.

My daughter was more direct, "I'm the one who's going to decide which nursing home you wind up in, so be nice."

All of which is by way of preface to say that this is intended as mental gymnasium: a place to try things out, bat stuff around, somewhere to go at 2AM when I'm supposed to be writing. It won't all be about film – but film is about life and experiences, so don't be surprised if what you see in here, winds up in a screenplay. And if I steal something of yours -- we'll it's because I respect you too much to insult you by trying to quantify your artistry with money. -- Oh, yeah, baby... with that kind of B.S., the bling can't be too far away.