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Netflix Genre Listings
When logged in to Netflix online, click on a genre selection below to see a complete list of current Netflix titles within the genre.
I’m used to buying radishes with wilted, sickly, and unappetizing tops; I lop them off and discard them. But what does one do when one buys bunches of radishes who greens are healthy, vital, and flush with life? There was a time when I would have taken the opportunity to make radish top soup. But that was an era during which I would have been pleased to make a dish that included heavy cream and potatoes. No more. So, what does one do with healthy radish greens after that era has passed? If one is me, and I am, one makes mulor shaak, a Bengali dish I found when consulting with Father Google about my conundrum. According to Father Google’s assistant—a blog called Aahar (a Hindi word meaning, as I understand it, food)—one happy use is to make mulor shaak, which I did. The photo here is the finished product, ready to be eaten. According to Aahar, mulor shaak is a dish served as a first course in Bengali households. I looked around and thought to myself, I can imagine this being a Bengali household, then went to work.
There’s not much to it, really. Wash and chop the radish greens, dice a green chile (I used a serrano pepper), heat some oil in a pan, and “temper” the oil with a red chile (I used a dried chile arbol) and some kalo jeera (black cumin). Then dump in the chopped greens, a pinch of tumeric powder, and the serrano pepper. While the mixture is cooking (on medium heat), toast three-quarters of a tablespoon of sliced almonds and then add them to the greens. Stir until you’re satisfied the dish is sufficiently cooked to be chewable; eat it. I calculated the calorie count of the dish as something in the neighborhood of 50-60, which translates into 25-30 per serving; pretty monstrous lunch, huh? I expect to munch on a little something extra after awhile, though, so my lunch calorie count probably will near two hundred calories by the time all is said and done.
My wife was not ecstatic about the meal, but she tolerates my food fetishes rather well, so she ate it and said it was interesting, but not something she’d actively plan to make in the future. I allowed as how I would, if there were healthy radish greens on hand. She countered by suggesting we might want to include the radish greens in addition to (or maybe even in place of) spinach in various Indian dishes we make on occasion. I was satisfied with that. When life gives you radishes, you make…do.
How can something so small, so irrelevant, matter? That question plagues us all and has done for centuries. Our answers never even approach truth, though, because we ask them defensively, as if we want to avoid hearing answers that would reveal who we are. And that is a shame, isn’t it? Wouldn’t the truth enable us to ferret out the ugly little viral strings that infect our thinking? Wouldn’t the truth open windows or, at the very least, wipe them clean to improve our view?
I just had a textual interchange with a friend. It could have become a more engaging conversation. But none of us are willing to open ourselves up to revealing the cracks in our fragile façades. None of us will freely admit to flaws so flagrantly and diametrically opposed to our social mores, yet so powerfully attractive and magnetic, yet genuinely fulsome. We humans are unwilling to explore the mistakes in our psyches. We avoid admitting the possibility that flaws course through our veins alongside our blood.
I felt an urge to document my thoughts; the question, of course, will be whether I can decode my message to myself in the days and months and years hence.
For reasons beyond my capacity to understand, my thoughts of late drift toward shirts I want but do not own—have never owned—and, to my recollection, have never even seen for sale. I’ve seen these clothes, but only rarely being worn. I recall seeing men on television wearing them and, on occasion, I remember photos. The recollection of the photos prompted me, last night, to go exploring, using Father Google as my guide.
I did not know what to call these shirts—still don’t—but I decided after long guided explorations of Father Google’s shadowy netherworld to call them either dashiki shirts or tunic-style shirts (perhaps both). The term “dashiki shirts,” though, seems always to correspond to images of brilliant-colored geometric patterns scooping from the neckline to the lower waist, in a “vee” pattern. Tunic-style shirts tend to refer to a broader range of design, but often without the requisite colors and geometric displays. Perhaps I’m after a hybrid; yes, that’s my objective, a hybrid piece of attire suited to my body, my taste, and tailored to my comfort.
The provenance of these shirts is cloudy, but for a variety of reasons I believe they are of African origin. Most of the images I’ve found in Father Google’s private collection sport elaborate batik designs and most of the models wearing them are Black. Both male and female models wear them; the few white models I’ve come across tend to wear more muted designs. I gather, too, the shirts were high fashion in hippiedom before I became conscious of hippiedom; several of the older images I’ve found are from Simplicity Patterns. Once such pattern I came across was labeled “Vintage 70s MENS Hippie Tunic Top Pattern / Mens Dashiki Pullover Shirt Pattern/Simplicity 7441.” That one, though, is a long-sleeved version; nothing wrong with that, but I began my quest with spring and summer attire in mind.
All of this fashionista-thinking takes me back to thoughts I’ve had in the not-too-distant past when I was (and, in all honesty, I remain) intrigued by clothing popular in other cultures. For example, a couple of years ago I explored churidar pyjamas and lungi (both pants) and kurta (shirts) of the Indian subcontinent, more than half-hoping I could either find those articles of clothing to buy or patterns I could use to make them (which would require the acquisition of a sewing machine and the skills to use it, not to mention the missing knowledge of the behaviors of specific types of cloth when sewn). As it happens, kurta appear to me to be quite similar to dashiki/tunic shirts, though the former tend to be much longer, their bottom hems falling below the knees. Dashiki/tunic shirts look to me to be equally as comfortable and probably would prompt fewer stares from dim-witted bumpkins (I really did not need to sully this post with my prejudicial bias, did I?).
And, so that marks the beginning of another Saturday, an early-February morning on which yet another weight record has fallen; down 18.8 pounds. At the current rate of shrinkage, I might actually look presentable in a dashiki/tunic shirt by the time I acquire a sewing machine and learn to use it.
Coincidence. That’s what it was. It wasn’t a sign, a divine guidepost. It was no marker signaling the completion of the first third of a journey. It was just a coincidence. Happenstance. An artificial contrivance born of the juxtaposition of wishes and measures, weights and wants. That having been said, as I measured the distance between post and passion, the correlation struck me. Oh the synchronicity, the symbolism! Or, at least, I was struck by my ability to so swiftly shed skepticism (amid the ever-present allure of alliteration).
The reality is this: mathematics controls us. Mathematics and the purity with which it demonstrates relationships is astonishing. How could it be, I asked myself, that on this first day I assessed my progress toward an artificial goal, the relationship between the goal and the progress made toward reaching it could be so precise? An ounce either way and the relationship would have been complex, messy, littered with imprecision. But there was no imprecision to cloud the relationship; it was as clear as a flawless crystal goblet in pure water unsullied with bubbles or debris or the distraction of refracted light.
One third of the way toward a meaningless, yet magically important, goal. I measured seventeen against fifty-one and there is was: one third of fifty-one is seventeen. Seventeen is one third of fifty-one. If I multiply seventeen by two, the product is thirty-four; fifty-one minus thirty-four leaves seventeen. Magical! So, as of this morning (and yesterday morning, too, to be honest), I have shed one third of my somewhat arbitrary weight loss goal. Now, amid this numerological mysticism and math-worship, I must come to acknowledge that the objective, especially its arbitrary nature, speaks volumes of the point I made when I began this tirade: it’s coincidence, pure and simple. But what if the objective were off by one-third from what it should have been? What if, instead of fifty-one, the objective should have been sixty-eight (that is, one third more than the original number)? Look at the relationship with THAT number! Seventeen is one-fourth of sixty-eight! The magic and majesty of mathematics survives even massive errors in goal-setting! In either case, though, I’ve shed a sizeable fraction (one-fourth to one-third) of a frivously-fashioned aim.
The next analysis, I think, ought to include a reasoned judgement of whether fifty-one or sixty-eight is the proper target or whether the correct figure is somewhere above or below those lofty goals. I’m leaning toward recognizing my progress as just the first quarter of a quartet. It pays to hold oneself accountable to stretch goals; in the battle between one seventy-five versus one fifty-eight, the light is at the far end of the tunnel.
Last night comprised a flurry of ugly dreams, all tangled in a ball of razor wire twine amid constraints as confining as a straight-jacket. I remember the fuzzy details of only one of the night’s experiential horrors. I was walking along a city street behind a couple of guys who, when accosted by a small group of men, shouted loudly and pointed to me before they ran away. Their attackers then turned their attention to me; they demanded my money, without showing weapons or otherwise demonstrating their intent to do me harm if I did not comply; but it was evident to me they would kill me if I did not give them my money.
“How much?” I asked.
“Everything,” one of them responded.
“I need some just to get home.”
“Everything, if you want to get home.”
I considered fighting, but was too afraid. So I gave them everything. And then they let me walk away. I did not know where I was, nor how to get home. As I came upon a bus stop, I found a sack—filled with quarters and half-dollars—in a muddy gutter. As I fumbled through the coins to count bus fare, a feeling of utter failure swept over me. I hadn’t even attempted to fight; I sense that everyone standing around me at the bus stop knew I was a coward, an irredeemable coward.
I’m shattering into a thousand pieces, as if I were a piece of glass dropped from a cliff to a stone pad far below. There’s nothing to be done; just accept the ending, as if it were destined to be. For it was. It was always destined to end; we simply didn’t accept it because endings are so final and so devastating. But that’s just how endings are. Hopes and dreams and wishes collide with the demonic reality of chaos and the fierce rage of a world in which pity and empathy are inconvenient lies swept up in clouds of ragged egotism. And that’s how it ends. That’s how the noble experiment finishes its impoverished run.
When the girls go out, this boy plays! While my wife and her entourage go to Charlie’s for pizza and a girl party, I cook up my own excitement. Here is my alluring dinner, one I can make only when I am the sole diner. Cauliflower, fried onions, a can of Rotel tomatoes and green chiles, green beans, and a very healthy amount of Mexene chile powder, cumin, salt, garlic salt, and my magical touch. Home alone, lord of my dominion, and ready for Netflix to indulge my fantasies.
Never before have we experienced a February 1, 2017 like this one. And never will we again. This is our one and only chance to take advantage of all that February 1, 2017 has to offer. This tiny slice of time—carved off the outer edges of an infinitesimal fraction of an almost invisible sliver of a moment too fleeting to be noticed except through our monstrously brief experience—represents every hope and every dream and every fear we’ve ever felt. Today. Now. This instant. It’s all we have. History is unbending. The future is not assured. We have only now. But that’s true of every moment, isn’t it? The accounting of our treasury relies, always, on how we bank the only moment available to us.
Several days ago, we went to a wine tasting dinner. There, I learned quite a lot about a couple who joined our table as the evening was drawing to a close. Based on what I learned during the waning moments of our enjoyable evening, I pursued my knowledge about the couple we met. What I learned scared me. The fear did not arise from what I learned about the couple, but how quickly and easily I learned so very much about them, based only on a few casual comments during conversation.
Then, today, after I posted some comments, in response to someone I thought exhibited stupidity of a high order, on a national website, it occurred to me that the target of my contempt could easily find more about me. Even though my Facebook profile is sparse to non-friends, my name is there. And, from that, my blog is easily found. As is my address. And my political leanings are open books to anyone caring to search for my political attitudes; they’re all “out there” on social media and like places.
We readily, and without much thought, reveal far too much to far too many people. Without looking back (and only just thinking briefly about what I’ve written), I realize I have revealed so much about myself that I have no hope for ever clutching onto real, comforting privacy. I’ve said too much. I’ve expressed opinions about politics, sex, religion, war, drugs, reading, farming, foods, misery, poetry, writing, deviance, disease, lust, orgasms (I seem to have suggested that more than once), heart disease, racism, poverty, racism, wind power…god, the list is endless. Were I the deviant bastard I think is lurking just beyond the doorway, I could have ammunition for a dozen lifetimes of extortion.
I bet I’m not alone. I’ll bet I know people nearby who would not want me to publish what they think I know about them. And I probably won’t. But I might. I might, especially, if I need funds to finance my relocation to Central America.
Just for the record, here’s what I think Trump and team are planning and how I expect things to play out:
Do I hope my outline turns out to be utterly wrong-headed? Of course. Do I have hope that I am wrong? No. But I want so fervently to discover that my assessment of the mentally-ill monster elected to “rule” our country and “ruin” the world in which we live is wrong is fundamentally flawed. I want so much for my analysis to be wrong. But I see too many parallels with history and too much evidence, in the gushers of lies spewing from his administration and his own twisted, demonic mouth, to think anything but the worst.
Could this all be fiction? Yes. Is it? I wish it were so.
“THESE are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated.”
~ Thomas Paine, The Crisis
Last night’s World Tour of Wines was the third in a series. I should have recorded the menus from the first two, but I did not. Better a last start than no start at all. First, what I remember from the first two: 1) First one was French wine and food; food served buffet style inside auditorium at Coronado Center; 2) Second was German wine and beer and food; table service outside on the patio at Coronado Center. Now, on to last night’s wine and food of Spain:
Wines served:
Meal:
I liked the chorizo. I inquired of Richard Wittman (who catered the affair). He said he buys it at Whole Foods which is, as far as he knows, the only place to buy it around here. I don’t know the brand, but I suspect I can find it if I look at Whole Foods.
Enjoyed talking with: Kathy, Bill, Paul, Rose, Dee, Jerry, Fred, and Glenda (the latter two who we invited to join us around dessert time, as they had been seated alone at the only two-top in the room (they arrived late). They work in Little Rock but live in the Village (recent residents); she retires at the end of May.
If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn,
they will bind you with love that is graceful and green as a stem.
Who, on reading or listening to those words from Leonard Cohen’s Sisters of Mercy, doesn’t long to be cradled in the comforting arms of the Sisters of Mercy? And, then, when you listen more, you know he’s speaking directly to you:
Yes, you who must leave everything that you cannot control
It begins with your family, but soon it comes around to your soul.
Well, I’ve been where you’re hanging, I think I can see how you’re pinned.
When you’re not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you’ve sinned.
He wrote that song for you, for all of you who’ve been travelling so long.
What might flood a man’s thoughts as he witnessed a convivial execution? How would one’s psyche come to grips with a harrowing orgasm? What parts of the brain would shiver and convulse in response to learning of a person’s eye being gouged from its socket by the tender, calloused hands of a bloodthirsty saint? Adjectives used in unexpected ways cause momentary ruptures in our synapses, shredding expectations into tight, excruciating ribbons that squeeze the softness out of what might otherwise be gentle thoughts resting comfortably on observations.
Have I sufficiently set the stage? Have you prepared yourself for what may come next? No, I doubt you have. For you have no inkling of the schemes I am hatching other than the clues I’ve offered up; those clues may well be red herrings, false flags, smoke screens, or bait of the bait-and-switch variety. Writers, or demons claiming other another brand name or insignia, lie under the acceptable pretense of entertainment.
The stage I set is an ephemeral drape, a curtain so thin as to flail in a gentle breath exhaled ten feet from the veil. I’ve lied to you; I’ve led you on with the objective of making you angry with me, the bastard you trusted to offer you a legitimate reason to keep reading. Instead, I lured you toward a precipice beyond which a flood of lies awaits you. And what of the harrowing orgasm? Yes, what of it? What of it, indeed. You were manipulated. Not because an objective required it, but only because the opportunity to manipulate was so tempting and so unmistakably visible.
When I awaken these days, I understand more clearly than in the not-so-distant past the solace in ritual. Ritual offers comfort. Carefully practiced ritual grants predictability and uniformity in times of chaos. Ritual provides at least a temporary protective shelter from one’s sense that an angry cosmos—furious at humanity for its monstrous efforts at self-destruction—seems bent on usurping humanity’s suicidal tendencies by drowning us in disruption and savagery. Ritual calms frayed nerves and tender memories buried and bruised by ugly realities.
For instance, this morning I awoke to commence what has become my morning ritual:
Today’s ritual involved more than the usual routine, in that I made miso soup. Making a miso soup breakfast is a ritual in an of itself, at least the way I make it. First, I take a large pot from the pot-rack and put it on a burner on the stove. I carefully measure the proper amount of water (lately, two and one-half cups) into it. I turn on the burner, then take the container of miso paste from the refrigerator and, using a soup spoon, scoop roughly two tablespoons of miso paste from the container and drop it into the water. As the water warms, I cut a large chunk of firm tofu and slice and dice it into half-inch cubes and drop them into the water. Next, I slice several mushrooms and drop them into the pot. I slice a scallion into thin rings and put them in a tiny bowl. I then cut several radishes into quarters and place them into another tiny bowl, paying careful attention to their appearance; radishes have to look just “so” in order to serve their proper, calming effect with morning miso. I pour just a bit of dry wakame into a bowl and add a tiny bit of water; almost immediately, it begins to hydrate; I drain the water off, then pour the now-hydrated wakame into the miso soup.
This morning, I deviated from my usual routine in that, in addition to the miso soup and radishes and sliced scallions, I opted to slice a hard-boiled egg in half and put both halves on the table in another tiny bowl, next to the scallions and radishes. I can imagine that, too, will become part of the miso morning ritual.
As is my custom, I have deviated from my intended topic, ritual, down the rabbit hole of breakfast procedures. Perhaps even that is my ritual. At any rate, back to ritual. These series of steps that I follow on many mornings tend to help me stay together, as in remain in one piece, without blowing apart into a million fragments of rage and disgust and molten fear. When I realize the way I use ritual to enable me to pretend there is order when, in fact, there is none, I begin to feel as if I’m uncovering a hidden (or perhaps not-so-hidden) truth about religion. Religion, ultimately, is ritual that’s codified and brewed into the social fabric of communities. I doubt religions arose out of imperialistic designs but, rather, out of the desire for comfort and predictability. But just as rituals can morph into (or form the basis of) obsessive-compulsive disorders, religion can transform from means to seek comfort to efforts to seek control.
And, so, there it is again; I am both intrigued and terrified by ritual. When does a ritualistic offering become a ritualistic sacrifice? At what point does the comfort of ritual become a cage from which there is no escape?
This is the sort of topic of conversation I would find interesting, amusing, and enlightening. But the danger is that, in conversation, it tends to take on a more serious tone than I care for, as if the raconteur believes his stories are more consequential than he has reason to think.
And that leads to a final thought this morning; serious topics need not be steeped in solemnity, nor must they omit frivolity. Ritual, in any form, must be open to fracture because, as Leonard Cohen so aptly put it, “that’s how the light gets in.”
Ella Squilp thought the idea sounded good. Create a large built-in aquarium for the living room of her monstrous house, stock it with fish, and never worry again about running out of fresh catch for dinner. Plus, as she envisioned it, the aquarium would be an extraordinary conversation piece. It would comprise a ten-thousand-gallon main tank in the center of the “great room,” with submerged, glass-topped channels running beneath the floorboards. The glass tops of the channels would be integrated into the floor, so guests could see the underwater wonderland as they walked to the kitchen, the guest baths, or toward the guest rooms. Need I say Ella Squilp was obscenely rich? Well, she was. She inherited an enormous fortune from her father who, in turn, had inherited it from his father, and so on for several generations. If one looked carefully at the family’s financial history, one would find it built upon the backs of literally thousands of people who, when their contributions to the family’s wealth declined to familially-determined unacceptable levels, were dispatched into the streets, utterly destitute. The Squilp family might have served as the model for a present-day dynasty.
Ella did not fully grasp the importance of the jobs performed by Clarence and Modesty Devlin, the housekeepers charged with cleaning the aquarium and feeding the fish. Clarence and Modesty had worked for the Squilps their entire adult lives, joining the household staff only a month after they married when they both were twenty-six years old. Ella, who was fifteen at the time they joined the staff, grew up with them. When Ella decided, just after her fifty-fifth birthday, to replace Clarence and Modesty with a younger, cheaper set of housekeepers, she did not realize the gravity of her mistake. Ella knew nothing of fish tank maintenance, nor of the consequences of inadequate aquarium cleanliness. So, she did not know how to train the new staff, “guppies” she called them. She assumed housekeepers, even untrained young ones, would know how to keep the tanks clean. After all, how hard could it be? Functions that could be filled by people of the “working class,” in Ella’s view, could not possibly require much knowledge; the lower classes must have some sort of innate understanding of taking care of dirt and the like, she figured.
It therefore came as quite a shock, then, when a number of her guests at a particularly lavish seafood dinner became quite ill after eating fresh salmon from Ella’s aquarium. When six of thirty deathly-ill guests died, members of the health department staff descended on Ella’s house, testing and measuring all manner of potential causes for the deadly outbreak. And they found them in the aquarium. The new staff members, not knowledgeable of proper aquarium maintenance practices and untrained in their jobs, had fed the fish with foods from the kitchen; the health department learned some of the food had been tainted. And so the food chain cycle had begun. Tainted salmon, looking and tasting absolutely delicious, wrought havoc on Ella’s guests. Fortunately for Ella, she had opted for the shrimp that evening, so she did not fall victim to the ghastly illness that killed some of her guests. But from that evening forward, she found it difficult to convince people to come to her house for dinner. For who is willing to risk one’s life by eating dinner at the home of someone with the apt nickname of “Salmon Ella?”
My foreign flick frenzy continued unabated on Tuesday evening, when I watched The Wave, (the Norwegian title for which is Bølgen). Unlike some of the previous flicks, this one cannot be accused of being in the same state, much less the same neighborhood, as an art-house film. No, it is most definitely of the action adventure genre. It was moderately entertaining, but it felt too much like low-creativity mass market American action adventure films for my taste. Quick synopsis: a geologist whose job involves monitoring geologic activities of the steep mountains/crevasses surrounding a fjord. He is about to leave to take a job with an oil company, but just as he is about to leave, the potential for an avalanche, which would cause a giant tsunami, becomes severe. You can imagine (I am sure you can…I know I did) what happens as the geologist tries to save the day, and his family.
Watching the film, though, sparked a recollection of watching, last year, a season of another Norwegian television series called Occupied (the Norwegian title is Okkupert). I loved Occupied and I hope the producers (including the Swedish co-production company that was behind The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo) decide to extend it. It happened again; I got sidetracked. Ane Dahl Torp is the reason watching the film ignited a memory; she is a co-star in The Wave and starred, as well, in Occupied.
My wife reminded me of another series that she said I’d like (and which I started to watch a year or so ago but got sidetracked and didn’t) called Borgen. Alas, the Danish series was available on PBS, and my wife recorded it, but she watched it and deleted the recordings (or, maybe, we changed providers and lost all the recorded episodes). According to something I read last night, Stephen King said something to the effect that it was his favorite television series. So, maybe one day I’ll find it and discover I like it; or maybe I’ll discover that my taste does not mirror Stephen King’s. That would be a shame; it would rain all over my parade.
Watching these foreign films and series, especially the Norwegian offerings, has adjusted my mental landscape. I am ready to move to Norway, where I will become moderately proficient in the language and will write compelling books and stories about the country’s foods, its ragged coastline, and the characters who inhabit the inlets and fjords. Speaking of language, my interest spiked when I learned (while exploring why she seemed so familiar to me) Ane Dahl Torp is the daughter of Norwegian linguistics professor Arne Torp. Aha! Another incidence in which the subtleties of the universe always seem to make their way round to language.
The news this morning says Trump will order, today, the building of “the wall.” Perhaps he not remember the ultimate outcome of Regan’s entreaty, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” The Soviet Union came tumbling down not long after; the wall was breached only two and one-half years after the speech. History has a way of repeating itself, searing its lessons into our minds like angry acid, bent on teaching us lessons we refused to learn when given easier opportunities. I can see the headstone now: “Donald J. Trump: American strongman, murderer of democracy, died under the crushing weight of the U.S./Mexico border wall, after it collapsed on him, his family, and his entire administration.” (See, I couldn’t help myself. Even foreign cinema brings out my loathing for would-be dictators.)
I’m a fervent admirer of a handful of musicians. People who know me may understand the depth of my admiration for Leonard Cohen, whose deeply meaningful poetry set to music moves me beyond anyone else’s art. Yet, even in the midst of my near-worship of his music, my attachment to his lyrics never translated to a reverence for every aspect of his life. That is to say I never wanted nor permitted my relationship with even the most esteemed musicians to move into the realm of “groupie-hood.” And it’s been the rare musician whose music has moved me to the extent Leonard Cohen’s music and performances did, and do. But the death of Maggie Roche, of The Roches, on Saturday, January 21, 2017 reminded me that I’ve had fierce attachments to the work of a few other musicians. Like Leonard Cohen, most of what I knew about Maggie Roche and The Roches revolved around their music; the lyrics and the tunes. I did not pay close attention to their lives outside their music; I did not even spend much energy following their music, though I enjoyed it immensely. When I heard a new song, or even an old one from years ago that moved me, it gave me new energy to listen intently to them for awhile before I moved on to whatever else was important in the moment. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that one of the Roche sisters had a daughter, Lucy, with Loudon Wainwright, but I did not know the particulars until this morning, when I did some research to learn who was what and what was who. During that research, I came across the video immediately below (if, over time, it is removed from its embedded spot in this post, I hope to find it on YouTube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGRxR1MVNk0), in which Suzzy Roche and Lucy Wainwright Roche sing. The song and video are companions to a book Suzzy Roche’s novel, Wayward Saints. I haven’t read it; I may read it one day.
This post was intended, from its inception this morning, to be about Maggie Roche. And it is; it’s just taking a while to get there. Because Maggie Roche, in my experience, was defined by her involvement with her sisters (Suzzy and Terre) in The Roches. As I was reading more about them this morning, I came across another video (below), this one on the part of The Roches‘ website devoted to Terre, that I found moving and uplifting:
Maggie Roche, at 65, was the oldest of the Roche sisters. Perhaps the best way for me to express who she was—the way she lit up the world with her music and herself—is to end this roundabout tribute to her with a video Suzzy posted on The Roches‘ Facebook page (Maggie is the one in the middle):
I did not intentionally seek out foreign films and television series. It was as if the Netflix series sought me out. First, I stumbled upon Fauda (which means “chaos” in Arabic), an Israeli television series political thriller that captured my interest and then drew me in like a sponge. I binge-watched season one, the only one yet available on Netflix. The fact that its languages were, primarily, Hebrew and Arabic did not bother me; the subtitles were well-done and, after a short while, it didn’t even occur to me that I was reading the subtitles instead of understanding the spoken dialogue.
The next accidental involvement in a foreign series was yet another first-season Netflix find, a fascinating dark police drama-psychological thriller called The Break (La trêve is the original French title), set in a small town in the Belgian Ardennes. Again, I binge-watched the season and I’m desperately awaiting season two. Like the first series, I easily and quickly fell comfortably at ease with the subtitles. The program follows a recently-relocated police inspector, who returns to the town of his youth after a personal tragedy. His first and only “big” case involves the death of an African immigrant footballer and a cadre of people whose flaws may or may not include murdering the young man. For a variety of reasons, The Break reminded me of another foreign crime drama program, this one a British television series called Broadchurch. I understand the third season of Broadchurch will air beginning next month on ITV; I don’t think I will be able to see it until it finds its way to Netflix. A French version of the series Malaterra, may one day find its way to Netflix. An American version of the first season, Gracepoint, wasn’t nearly as satisfying as Broadchurch. As I was exploring the related pieces and discovering which series reminded me of The Break, Netflix suggested to me that I might enjoy watching Deep, another French television series (one season only). I rather like that Netflix has the uncanny ability to read my mind, offering up suggestions of programs that might interest me. But I also find it a bit scary. Let me return to the track from which I ran off.
After realizing I could not longer satisfy my thirst for more of either of the two series (each of which I hope will return with the availability of the second season later this year), I wandered Netflix again and came upon a black comedy gangster flick called In Order of Disappearance (title, in original Norwegian, is Kraftidioten). A mild-mannered snow-plow operator, an immigrant (who migrated from Sweden, I think, but I’m not sure) named Nils, seeks revenge and justice for the murder of his son, who was murdered for a drug “crime” in which he was an unwitting participant. Nils’ attempts at justice ignites a gang war between rival drug bosses, one a locally grown Norwegian pretty boy and the other a Serbian mafia boss. The film is mostly in Norwegian, I think, but there’s Swedish, Danish, English, Serbian, and German thrown in, according to IMDb. It’s funny and violent and bloody; regardless of the gore, it’s an enormously entertaining film, running just shy of two hours.
Though I was not seeking foreign television and films, I am absolutely delighted I came across these gems. My sister-in-law, when she learned that I enjoyed the series, suggested I try to get my hands on A Village in France. Alas, Netflix offers suggestions of entertainment that might be similar to it, but they do not offer it. Damn! I think I need to keep track of the foreign films and series I watch. These three are by no means the only ones I’ve watched; only the most recent. As I try to remember earlier programs, the ones that come to mind are: Hyena Road (the most recent), a Canadian film about the experiences of Canadian troops in Kandahar Province in Afghanistan that does not rate terribly high on my list and The White Helmets, a British documentary about the horrific experiences of the ongoing Syrian conflict.
Maybe I’m just tired of American television and film or, rather, the silliness of most of it. That’s of course too much of a generalization; there’s plenty on American television and enough coming out of Hollywood to keep me both entertained and intellectually stimulated. But there’s just so damn MUCH coming out; I guess I don’t want to wade through it looking for decent material. It’s easier stumbling across something on Netflix, something that’s been curated for a discerning audience. Does anyone else hate the overuse of that word—curated—of late? It’s as if an entire generation of media writers has come across the word and fallen in love with it. Arghh!
Enough energy devoted to documenting my affection for foreign film; maybe I’ll go look for more.
An elegant breakfast, you see, can spell the difference between joy and disillusionment. Even after consuming every morsel of goodness, every shred of the morning meal that promises sustenance and sovereignty over one’s personal dominion, the elegance remains.
Even in the aftermath of an elegant breakfast, the carcass stands proud on the plate, daring dishonor—as it turns to run—to show it cowardly tail.
My day began, as it typically does of late, with my morning weigh-in. My weight was the same this morning as it was yesterday, which is modestly disappointing but not unexpected. The pounds do not slide off like a freshly-waxed car exuviates water. (I must acknowledge that I have never before used ‘exuviate’ and, until just now, did not know what it meant; I learned something new today, which, among other experiences, made waking up worthwhile.) To date, twenty-one days into my lifestyle change, I’ve shed 13.8 pounds. As a result, I fit far better into my jeans and my sports jacket than I did three weeks ago. But I’m not writing about my lifestyle change resulting in weight loss, am I? (Well, perhaps I am, but it was not my intent when I started.) No, I am writing to recount what I learned during my visit with a healthcare provider this morning.
My healthcare provider drinks coffee with sugar-free flavoring; sugar-free because she is diabetic. Her husband considers his wife and their two sons (one in college and the other a high school student) “wussies” because they flavor their coffee; he drinks his strong and black. My healthcare provider’s cousin, who is the same age she is (48) is about to retire from the armed forces (Air Force, I think). He wants to move to Australia and work in a surf shop; his dream is to become a beach bum. He and his wife (who is Vietnamese) and daughter live in Hawaii at the moment; his daughter (and a son, I believe) would stay in the States if he moves to Australia. My healthcare provider knows when her high-school-aged son arrives at school because an app on her phone signals her when he arrives (the app is based on GPS). I learned, too, that my healthcare provider would happily retire early and instantly if she came into a large financial windfall. That notwithstanding, she seems to enjoy a collegial relationship with her co-workers, at least one of whom periodically tries new flavored coffees and, when she comes across one that does not appeal to her, gives the unused portion to my healthcare provider to share with her sons.
Now, why am I exposing all of this information about my healthcare provider? I relay this information only to demonstrate that, if one pays attention, one can gather enormous volumes of information that can prove useful to one’s writing. With just the smattering of information I gathered this morning (I did not really gather it; I simply absorbed what was being shared), I could easily create a compelling character for a story. And, I suspect, one day I will. I will incorporate her red hair, her attractive smile, and her blue-green eyes into a character. I will paint a character study of this woman, using my memories of this morning’s rather one-sided conversation, revealing a believable character. And then I will adapt her attributes and experiences in such a way as to make her into a more intimate, complex, enormously attractive character with stunning but believable flaws, flaws that make her at once compelling and offensive.
Perhaps I will challenge this character’s better judgment by presenting her with an opportunity for a torrid affair with a patient; she will face a choice between comfortable boredom and uneasy, dangerous excitement. Or, maybe I will have her discover that her husband is having an affair with her best friend; she could be forced to decide between the hard work of salvaging their relationship or breaking free of an emotional connection that has, for too many years, been kept afloat with baling wire and acidic perseverance. But, instead, maybe the challenges won’t rely on the old standby of romantic fire or dead ember; maybe the challenges will revolve around the simultaneous collapse of both her and her husband’s jobs, putting them face-to-face with the potential of losing everything because they’ve never saved their money and, instead, spent it on their kids. There are so many options!
Oh, wait! I just had another idea! She could go home from work one day to find the sinks and tubs stopped up. After her husband tries and fails to find the cause, they hire a plumber, who discovers a blockage in their main sewer line. The blockage is the body of a child, only a few weeks old; the blockage is between the house and the city sewer line, so it must have come from the house. How could someone have put the child’s body in the sewer line and who would have done it? Nah! I don’t like that idea after all. No, perhaps the way to introduce tension into the story is to have the family sitting around the dinner table one night, reviewing their days with one another, when suddenly they hear the news that Russian forces have crossed into Alaska and have captured Fairbanks. Or, maybe astronomers have revealed stunning news about the sun; its fuel sources will be depleted in a matter of ten to thirteen years, so the human race has more serious problems to content with than religious wars.
Or maybe something else entirely.
Let me preface my comments with these words: I absolutely despise Donald Trump; I believe he is a despicable human being whose rise to the Presidency cannot be explained entirely with logic. How a madman with the capacity to undermine all the good progressive work that has been done since our country’s founding became President is beyond me. If the United States survives his time in office, I will inch just a bit little closer to believing in miracles. Given the man’s utter absence of morality and the lies spewing forth from his mouth and his fingers, I absolutely understand the outrage well over half the citizenry feel toward his every word. There, that’s out-of-the-way. Now, let me get to the heart of my message.
The strategies employed by the Democratic Party and its adherents (and I include myself in the latter group, but not the former) in the attempt to retain the White House badly miscalculated the public’s mood and, worse, ignored some very real fear and pain. “We” Democrats overlooked the fact that, in spite of all the good done by President Obama during his tenure, our priorities did not run parallel with the priorities of an enormous swath of the populace. What we believe is the good-spirited humanitarianism that drove our policy platforms is viewed differently through a different lens; if we remove our rose-tinted glasses, we might get a glimpse at the rage that led to a lunatic getting his hands on the nuclear codes. Almost as important, though, we might get a glimpse at how our own behaviors, and not just the policies we espouse, contributed to a backlash that—unless we take corrective action—will continue to erode our ability to make progress toward our objectives. Let’s remember that phrase: “our objectives.” We will need to revisit that in this discussion.
Republicans in general, and a number of independents—and a great many Democrats— view our liberal attitudes with deep skepticism and, indeed, loathing. They view our empathy for immigrants, for example, not as embracing humanitarian charity and decency but, instead, as evidence of our utter disregard for people whose jobs have disappeared or who believe our efforts to improve the treatment of and care for immigrants as a slap in the face of Americans who, in their eyes, are being ignored. They see championing the rights of women to control their own bodies not as an indication of our deep respect for individual liberties but, instead, as evidence of our utter disregard for human life. Our support for free (or even affordable) college tuition is indicative, in their eyes, of at least three fundamental flaws in our thinking: 1) support for the college-bound and college-educated suggests, in their minds, disrespect for those who do not choose college; 2) they see the commitment of free tuition as representative of a handout that does not require an equal commitment by the recipient (after all, tuition support to person who have served in the military (the GI bill) requires a prior commitment) and 3); ‘free’ is never free; they think we are astonishingly naive to think that money to provide free tuition will just magically appear.
Before we begin planning how we are going to correct such absurdly ill-informed ideas about liberals/progressives/Democrats, let’s look in the mirror, shall we? Progressives (I’ll lump all of us in one container for the moment), at least vocals progressives, tend to view Republicans with distrust and their policy positions with disgust. We view their staunch opposition to tightening immigration policies and processes as evidence of their inhumanity; after all, it’s obvious they simply don’t care about the plight of immigrants, even those who flee oppressive regimes in search of freedom and a more serene life…right? We assign sinister motives to their opposition to amnesty for illegal immigrants. We view their opposition to abortion as evidence of their disregard for the rights of women and their fanatical worship of a fertilized egg as an indication of their warped understanding of life and death. And their opposition to free college tuition? It’s a hard-hearted effort to punish and subvert intellectual growth and development.
Both conservatives and liberals in recent years have become increasingly intractable in their positions. As they have solidified their philosophies around immutable ideas, they have built fortresses to protect those concepts from incursions that might lend flexibility to hard and fast positions. That amounts to an unwillingness to bend, even a little, on matters that seem injurious to certainty. Both camps, then, are unwavering in their insistence that only “their” side’s positions should find their ways into governing principles. Given the results of the recent election, that suggests that only one side or the other will get to have a say in the direction of the country. And, if the current administration screws up royally (as I fully expect it to do), then the next time it may be “our” turn to play the steadfast ruler who’s unwilling to flex. As the ball bounces back and forth from election to election, the divisions deepen and widen into lacerations far worse than political discord; they turn into social disintegration. I wrote those sentences as if they were forecasts; no, they are history lessons and the history is fresh and ugly and beneath the bandages are ugly festering wounds.
Remember when I mentioned “our objectives?” What are our objectives? Is our intent simply to impose our liberal/progressive will on a population that does not share our world view? And is it the intent of conservatives to do the same, relegating us to impotent entities that just happen to share their world, but not their rights and privileges? And who defines what “our” objectives are? We, liberals and conservatives alike, ought to ask and insist on getting (and giving) answers to those questions.
Ultimately, as humans first and Americans second, I think we need to come to grips with the reality that we do, indeed, share objectives that are—if we allow ourselves to admit it—identical from person to person, and from culture to culture. We all want to be, and for others to be, happy. Here, I use the term to mean sufficiently free of painful burdens to enable us to enjoy life.
Despite my frequent intractable positions on all manner of issues, I suspect I am like many people who understand, down deep, that no matter how fervently we believe in our philosophies, we know we cannot always have our way. We know we must compromise on matters of principle that we feel should not be subject to compromise. We know we must hold firm to our convictions, but we must identify a very few that are so supremely important that we would be willing to die or to kill for them. The rest are subject to compromise; not based solely on an economic model but, rather, on a model dedicated to reaching the ultimate aim of happiness.
I think that means liberals and progressives will have to come to grips with making some difficult compromises. The same difficulties will face conservatives. For example, liberals may have to concede that, in order to form a more perfect union, abortions might be restricted in certain circumstances and/or must be actively discouraged. And conservatives may have to concede that, as much as they abhor the concept of abortions, they may have to be allowed except in “extreme” circumstances. Liberals may have to be willing to tolerate much tighter border controls and more intrusive and harsher means of dealing with violators. Simultaneously, conservatives may have to force themselves to recognize that the price of democracy is the humane and caring treatment of people who, fleeing from oppressive circumstances, seek asylum in the United States. Liberals may be forced to admit that the potential costs of a burgeoning national debt included forced hard choices between Medicare and free college tuition. Conservatives may have to acquiesce to a higher tax burden on everyone, with an emphasis on high income earners, in order to ensure safety nets that they may one day need.
As I look across the country at the deep divides we face as a nation, I think I see ways we can scale back the growing hatred (and that’s not too harsh a word) between left and right. Both sides need to scale back their rhetoric and their stridency. I’m not suggesting abandoning any principles here, just adding a filter to the interactions, a filter including respect and decency. Attacking the other side as people is a sure path to failure. Attacking positions and policies with logic and defending those positions with rational arguments instead of rage can go a long way toward healing wounds. Rather than attacking the opposition as imbeciles (a tactic of which I’ve been guilty more frequently than I care to admit), we ought to argue against positions, while trying to acknowledge why an opponent might hold the position. Ultimately, I really believe we’re all trying to achieve happiness. If we can begin work by seeking to give one another reason to believe we’re looking for the same thing, we might be more likely to make progress.
The marches that took place yesterday across the country were, for the most part, positive examples of stating positions and advancing arguments. I think we must be careful, though, not to position those marches and ones like them purely as opposition attacks. Rather, I think careful messaging needs to take place to ensure that the needs and desires of the election’s “winners” will not be ignored because their happiness, too, is part of the outcome we’re all seeking. We need to craft messages that clearly articulate that “our messages” are, truly, “OUR” messages. We must enlist opponents to help us understand their needs and be willing to compromise so that their needs, and ours, can be met.
The suggestions, though they may only have been implied, that the progressive agenda would command every ounce of energy in a new Democratic administration, might have been the worst suggestions we could have made. I, for one, am truly and completely tired of stalemate and obstinacy on the part of both Democrats and Republicans. I am ready for compromise, though agreements reached through compromise will be painful for me to accept. If liberals and progressives deal purely in obstruction like their Republican counterparts did during the Obama administration, our desires and our dreams will go down in flames; and the conflagration will be deserved.
Those of you (I’m not there yet) who subscribe to Amazon Prime—or who otherwise spend your hard-earned and/or studiously saved dollars in pursuit of helping Jeff Bezos topple his latest financial record in favor of building an even greater financial colossus—might find the following chart interesting. You may also find it interesting to know that Bezos, among the richest eight men in the world, is one three of the eight several super-rich individuals who have not signed the “Giving Pledge,” the commitment by many of the world’s richest people to dedicate their wealth to philanthropy. The other two who seem to eschew the idea of pledging their wealth to benefit humanity in general, as opposed to their own descendants exclusively, are Spanish billionaire Amancio Ortega and Mexican business magnate Carlos Slim Helú.
The second chart below illustrates the variations in wealth growth (or shrinkage), by “class,” in the USA. The chart reveals some pretty unpleasant disparities. But another chart I viewed this morning shows that the shrinkage in USA wealth among the middle class paralleled the dramatic growth in wealth among the world’s poorest populations. So, for example, the middle class in Asian countries grew at an astonishing rate, lifting millions upon millions of people out of poverty. But that glorious humanitarian success pales in comparison to the adjustment in the USA; it’s time to “Make America Great Again” by doing all we can to rip those hard-earned dollars from Asian families, boosting our own incomes and slashing Asians’ incomes to more appropriate levels. Or, at least, that’s what the narcissist-in-chief would have us believe.
As if a nasty cyst in the White House weren’t enough, there’s one on my wrist. According to my self-diagnosis, based on extensive internet research (AKA a quick Google search), it’s a ganglion cyst. At least that’s what I think and hope. I’d rather not believe it an alien being, ready to erupt through my skin and devour my face. I’m thinking I’ll test my proficiency with a scalpel, using a series of graphic representations of surgical removal of ganglion cysts as a guide. That will save me the cost of paying an insurance premium. Aside from slipping and slicing through an artery, what could go wrong (aside, of course, from deadly infections, unfathomable pain, and severed tendons)?