Photo with Caption- Island of Misfit Candidates Edition

Diplomacy 101

      "You can't respect somebody who kisses your ass"  

- Ferris Bueller

[This post was originally published on 29 February 2012.  In light of Russia's latest meal, the post remains relevant.  Our chickens have indeed come home to roost.]

In the real world, the quote above forms the bedrock of international relations, just as it does in interpersonal relations.  When the nation's voters occasionally hand the keys to the SUV of State to a gaggle of Progressive Academics, these pedagogues invariably ramble the wrong way onto the freeway in the midst of rush hour.  Disaster ensues.  The result is invariably a diplomatic group therapy session moderated by a scarf-wearing Peace Corps veteran with a  Joni Mitchell tune-nag who knows in her heart that all differences can be feather-dusted into a win-win through friendly dialogue.  9 times out of 10, this is the result:

Lost in the Hood

The current American Administration is chock-full of just such academics; or worse, with the types of interesting people these academics invite to their dinner parties.  But the world is different than it appears from inside an alabaster obelisk insulated with 8 inches of tenure, sycophancy and groupthink.  So in a never-ending cycle, these Utopian Theoreticians are occasionally given a license to leave the bleachers and walk onto the actual playing field for 4 to 8 years.  The result resembles the conclusion of an encounter between an inquisitive kitten and a lobster.  Eventually, the Pros get called in to clean up the mess, like the fellow with the shovel at the end of the zoo parade.

To paraphrase young Ferris, the United States has just spent the last 37 consecutive months smooching the backside of every unsavory member of the global cast of characters.  A nice, altruistic, unrequited peck on the derriere of nearly every global entity who, either overtly or covertly, wishes us ill.  To add tragedy to folly, the Administration has simultaneously given the kiss-off to our strategic best friends.  Actually, the lucky ones get the kiss-off (later, Poland.)  If you happen to be an ally of the U.S. who is getting the evil eye from one of the bad guys we're desperately trying to toady up to, you might want to beef up that life insurance policy (Hosni? Hosni who? Tell him I'm busy playing Democracy with my new friends from the Muslim Brotherhood.)

The hard currency of this ass-kissing is The Apology.  This debasement is intended to make everything all better.  But an apology by the leader, even when deserved, sows the seeds of disrespect among those led.  Make a too-frequent habit of apologizing to your children and they'll be running the household within 6 months.  Though the President has thrown out apologies the way a krewe tosses out beads at Mardi Gras, he seems to reserve his biggest ration of these for Islam.  Some scribbled-up Korans (yes, I spell it the old-fashioned way) get disposed of by burning in Afghanistan, and 2 Army officers then get shot in the back of the head by an Afghani counterpart while two other servicemen get murdered in cold blood- all for being American Infidels. What does the United States do?  Wait for it.... yes, apologize! And prosecute the soldiers who mistakenly burned the books.

The Apology is the violin in the dirge of appeasement.  Appeasement is Crock-Pot Suicide.  It is as much an invitation to mischief as letting a wad of Euros hang out of your back pocket in Rome near a swarm of gypsy urchins.  In 2012, no nation on Earth holds the United States in high regard.  Not even the United States, it seems.  Right now would be a good time to stop apologizing, stick the aforementioned fellow with the shovel into the nicest office in Foggy Bottom, and hit that ridiculous reset button again.

Back in the 1980s, the frisky terrorists in Lebanon got ahold of some Russians and threatened to do some unpleasant things to them.  Did the Soviets apologize for the hostages' soiling of their captors' Persian rugs?  No.  Instead, according to legend, the KGB was quietly dispatched to teach the kidnappers a little lesson, which involved, among other things, syringes and eyeballs.  Relatives of the kidnappers also became involuntarily involved. Again, all very quiet.  No Russian apologies were ever issued.  And the Russians had no further difficulties in Lebanon.  The lesson here is self-evident.

If the opening quote is the foundation of diplomacy, what structure rests well upon it?  Here I offer another quote, spoken by John Wayne in his last film, The Shootist:

"I won't be wronged. I won't be insulted. I won't be laid a-hand on. I don't do these things to other people, and I require the same from them."

The bumper sticker-festooned electric car-driving crowd defecates masonry when a person combines Diplomacy and Cowboys in a discussion of world affairs.  To cause these indignant folk even more duress, I'll add the following- Theodore Roosevelt was only 2/3 correct when he thought it wise to "speak softly, and carry a big stick."  It is not enough to carry and display the stick; the stick must be forcefully employed when the John Wayne modus vivendi is transgressed. 

Effective Diplomacy has more often than not been the ends, not the means.  A good use for diplomacy is to determine the specifics of the surrender being offered by an adversary.  Another is to announce to the bad guy walking toward you with obvious evil intent that if he crosses the line you are pointing at on the ground in front of you, his next activity will be to enjoy a helicopter flight to the nearest trauma center.

And now a pair of images:

Good Diplomacy:

Bad Diplomacy:

The key takeaway from the above photo is that smiling President Hu is not returning the bow.  This translates to:

                    U.S. President:         "I submit to you."
                    Chinese President:  "I accept your submission."

To continue in this vein is going to induce me to research the analgesic effects of the contents of my liquor cabinet, to the likely detriment of my professional efficiency this morning.

One last bit about the Roosevelt Policy- it only works if the stick is really big, and if it's really a stick.  Diverse, politically-correct, hollowed-out, toddler-safe Nerf Sticks don't count.  The most maddening fact is that the academics running the show to whom I earlier referred grew up playing with unisex G.I. Barbie Joe dolls, and wouldn't know a big stick from a magic wand.

Photo of the Week- 98lb Weakling Edition



The CinC displays his foreign policy prowess - again.

Once again, boys, into the cul-de-sac!

Dementia's Dictionary

Social Justice. /`sosh~ul `just~iss/ Noun. (Orig. Just Socialist. From L. Justicia, to make right, i.e., fork it over, and Socialus, taxpayer, i.e, Cracker.)
1. The virtuous-sounding objective, perpetually demanded but never deemed achieved, wherein those who expend the greatest legitimate professional effort are extorted of the funds intended for the purchase of a bottle of Sauterne and a block of Gruyere - some of which is then provided to others for the procurement of a case of Mickey's Big Mouth, a bag of Doritos, and a vote.  Variations of this phenomenon also apply to municipal entities responsible for the naming of streets, institutions of higher learning, and the United States of America.

Quote of the Day- Unintended Irony Edition


"I believe we have to keep working to create an America where no matter who you are, no matter what you look like, no matter where you come from, no matter what your last name is, no matter who you love, you can make it here if you try."

-Barack Hussein Obama, President of the United States,

Sunday, August 12, 2012 in Chicago

 

 

30 years, 4 bales of Michoacan, 3 pounds of blow, 2 autobiographies and 1 Nobel Peace Prize earlier:





Which leads me to another Chicago-based quote:

Bless you, JH.  I must confess- there are actually two gems in the clip that are relevant here.





Photo Without Caption

Do It Again

Where Summer shifts into high gear, the Boys catch another big one, and MoD attempts to make amends by laying a patch about an artist's unintended success in one-upping van Gogh. 

Last year I had the pleasure of enjoying a well-executed documentary* about Beach Boys linchpin Brian Wilson and his struggle to complete the album SMiLE, begun in 1966.  It is widely known that his efforts resulted in substantial self-destruction.  I knew that with much assistance and encouragement (including from key figure in the original project Van Dyke Parks,) Brian did in fact complete SMiLE with a new ensemble of talented musicians in 2003/04, or roughly 37 years later.  I did not know until quite recently that last year he reconstructed SMiLE using the original Beach Boys material.  This was released several months ago, and is arguably the pinnacle of their work, at least from a creative and technical perspective.

When I was younger and more foolish than I am today, I did not respect the Beach Boys to the degree they warranted.  I thought they were an entertaining but somewhat silly band who wrote shallow songs about 60's cars,

60's girls,

and 60's California.

 
And then that Kokomo song came along, and I felt obliged to unceremoniously toss them onto the same lifestyle pile as Jimmy Buffett.  I still respected songs like "Good Vibrations," but for most of my youth I regarded the Beach Boys as a passe party band.


Whether due to my crossing the threshold of middle age, or the time spent living in SoCal, or my consumption of documentaries such as the gem mentioned above, I began to appreciate the importance of these men and their music.  In addition, the recreation of the Carter Presidency with a black cast (and the malaise I feel all over again as a result) has made me yearn for that which is unabashedly American, Patriotic and Positive- and the Beach Boys meet that need in spades.


I have now also been incorporated into the great body of those who appreciate and espouse the brilliance of Brian Wilson.  To know that Paul McCartney regarded Brian Wilson as the sole contemporary songwriter of similar caliber to himself, and that George Martin felt Brian to be of like skill as a studio tour de force, elicits simultaneous feelings in me of patriotic pride and shame- shame for not being familiar with more of Wilson's work earlier in my life.  At the end of the documentary, after witnessing the earlier heartbreaking devastation to Wilson caused by the SMiLE implosion, the triumphant initial performance of the entire composition at the Royal Festival Hall (with both McCartney and Martin in attendance) and the resultant thunderous ovation for Wilson, I was affected as strongly as at the conclusion of my first viewing of It's a Wonderful Life.  This is a definitive example of the artistic struggle to move the subjective into the objective with a double-digit-sigma level of perfection.  I am certain that it must have been enormously cathartic for Wilson.

In the wake of my pleasant epiphany, I learned that in 2012 the Beach Boys would be rejoined on tour by Brian Wilson and celebrate their 50th anniversary.  I had never seen the Beach Boys in concert.  I promptly bought tickets to see the group in June at an amphitheatre.  Shortly after buying the tickets, the Beach Boys released a new album, which went to number 3 on the charts.  And so, 50 years to the month after Surfin' Safari became the Beach Boys' first hit, my wife and I drained our little bottles of pre-mixed Margaritas in the venue parking lot (just as I once did likewise to warm, undersized bottles of Little Kings outside of High School) and filed in with a genuinely eclectic collection of fellow prospective audience members to take our places in anticipation of experiencing America's Greatest Rock n' Roll Band.  (And now for a sincere gripe- why is there always at least one stinky, emaciated, shirtless white guy with dreadlocks stuffed under a macrame hat cavorting around every pre-concert parking lot, regardless of the musical genre?  Is it just because the other ubiquitous element at every pre-concert parking lot is ganja?  Well, excuse me while I don't light my spliff.  I'll leave that to the Choomer-in-Chief.)

After laying out our territorial towel upon the grass, I looked about and suddenly felt rather ancient.  Instead of Acapulco Gold, the air was now pungent with Ben-Gay.  Granted, this was only in a figurative sense, but my mind flashed back to an all-day stadium concert in the 70's where a bikini-bottomed lass stood up in front of me while Blue Oyster Cult noodled away upon the stage, her Loggins and Messina-era minge having largely escaped the Dacron confines of her swimsuit.  Right.  The Brazilian had yet to migrate north.  As I snapped back to the present, a lady stood up in front of me, wearing shapeless white linen slacks with a sweater draped across her back.  No excess foliage issues here- she appeared to be equipped with what is commercially known as an adult undergarment.  However, further afield I could make out people under 60; beach balls were being lofted about the premises; and a gaggle of 30-ish girlfriends were loudly laughing at the gold-digger with gargantuan gazongas and pneumatic lips sashaying past.  Average age aside, this still resembled a typical concert.

To the predictable delight of the crowd, the Beach Boys took their places on stage and kicked the night off with the syncopated, almost industrial beat of 1968's "Do It Again", the lyrics delivered in staggered fashion upon a steady thick backbone of a beat, with the gorgeous harmonies then launched, like steam being let out of a hot boiler.  And the lyrics spoke of girls and sun and surf and beach- of course- but in a distinctly retrospective sense.  This was a nostalgic song to begin a nostalgic concert.  They then played hit after hit, even performing several covers, such as the Dell Vikings' "Come Go With Me."  Halfway through the show, a guy draining his lizard next to me in the men's room said to his friend "Man, I didn't know they had so many hits!"

A bit later, the only unfortunate event that evening happened when one of the seemingly innocuous beach balls landed square on the nose of Depends Lady, causing a bloody gusher to spray indiscriminately out of her face until the EMTs escorted her away.  I nearly intervened prior to this, and if the EMTs hadn't arrived as quickly as they had, it would likely have been the first time that someone's life was saved by their underwear.

The Hot Rod songs all sounded great, and reminded me that I still agree with Paul Newman when he once said that his favorite sound in life was a V-8 engine.  Sorry, but the tuner cars popular today sound to me like farting into a crazy straw.  The Ballads were beautiful, and my wife appeared to be wistfully recalling her adolescent romantic angst while listening to "Surfer Girl."

However, I became completely transfixed when the spotlight focused upon Brian as he undertook "Heroes and Villains" from SMiLE.  Here he was performing this music with the remaining members of the Beach Boys; this was arguably better than being at the Royal Festival Hall initial performance back in 2004.  That was Brian without the rest of the band.  I was listening to the closest possible live performance of this music to the original from 46 years before.  Even the Kokomo crowd joined in the standing ovation at the end of the song.  That was my highlight, along with "Good Vibrations" and its essential electro-theremin hallmark.

The last song of the evening was 1964's "Fun, Fun, Fun," the eternal tribute to Shirley Johnson England and Mr. Johnson's Ford Thunderbird, both of Salt Lake City.  This was a concert that I will clearly and completely remember forever.

It is truly remarkable that this band continues to perform together after more than 50 years.  They have become an organic and essential part of Americana.  Where I used to regard their subject matter as trivial, I now regard it not just as a celebration of youth, but as an optimistic affirmation of American life, as most fully epitomized by the culture which rose forth from Southern California a half-century ago.

Time used to be the Beach Boys' bete noir.  They, and Brian Wilson particularly, seemed to lie askew of time and its current.  He was ahead of it, it passed him by, he caught up with it, it caused his problems, it solved his problems, and it finally allowed us to catch up.  He wrote a song on the second side of 1966's Pet Sounds titled "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times."  Beach Boys songs have aged so well that I often have difficulty placing them in the proper decade.  For example, "Do It Again" honestly sounds as if it could have been created in 2005.  For Brian, it seems as though there has at last been synchronization.  I would like to know how he feels about everything now- through a competent interview, perhaps.  But until then, I am grateful that I now listen to them and have proper respect for these men who may actually leave a larger legacy upon popular music than Elvis- in time.

Brian Wilson sings Good Vibrations

* Beautiful Dreamer: Brian Wilson and the Story of Smile, Showtime, 2004. 

Dementia's Dictionary

Ambrose Bierce I am not, but the snark has come upon me today.

Wikileaks  /`wi~kee~leeks/  noun. 1. The action which occurs halfway through a properly executed Filthy Sanchez, as made famous by traitorous poof Specialist First Class Bradley Manning.  A reminder why secrets should never be entrusted to anyone who has ever enjoyed antiquing.
2. The consequence of Joy Behar sneezing.

Coincidence or Kin?

Contrary to the content of the delightful advertising produced by Apple, the computer-maker of choice for enlightened souls in Hollywood and lesser places, there are many things my wife's Mac laptop does not do well.  My PC has been drafted into coming to her rescue, depriving me of its services- hence, no posts for some time.  In fact, she's about to abscond with it again, so in my desperation I only have time for another quick post.

I call this initial entry in an intended ongoing category of posts Coincidence or Kin?

You be the Judge.

Postscript- one of these family-friendly faces belongs to a power-mad character so ruthlessly bent on smashing the will of fellow citizens while sociopathically scorning them with scathing, sarcastic superciliousness that the person once declared that democracy should be suspended so that politicians would not have to be held accountable for their actions (it was shortly after this comment that the above-depicted villains were both known as the Joker), and who, last week, responded to an overwhelming vote by the person's constituents against an issue of which the person was strongly in favor by roundly and intentionally insulting them.  The speaker then allegedly proceeded to hypnotize and swallow a capybara.

There may still be time to get a measure on the ballot to outlaw really bad cosmetic surgery...

Requiem for a Rioja

Ostensibly a lament about wine; more accurately a diatribe against any airline employee who ever thought about sleeping with George Michael (back when this was still considered something of a feat and not typically accomplished in a pissoir); and a call to others to resist any future temptation to toss a life ring to a certain State when it inevitably gets sucked down a whirlpool of its own making.

In addition to the usual factors affecting the actuarial tables of a bottle of alcohol, coming into my possession has often resulted in a few more- none positive.

The frequent travel incident to my most-recent prior profession allowed me the opportunity to steadily amass a decent collection of assorted grape distillates, including a treasured subset from Spain, Portugal, and their respective far-flung possessions.  Getting all these bottles back to America was a process begging for its own story, but I got everything back within the borders of the U.S. intact and unharmed.  It has been the intracontinental movement of my hoard that has provided the danger to the well-being of my otherwise well-shepherded stock.

First, the petite tragedie.  The bottle shown above, a 1994 Gran Reserva Faustino I Rioja, is the hoarier-looking brother of the dearly departed at the center of this tale.  Its relative was given to me some years ago as a meaningful farewell gift by the Master of a U.S.-flagged merchant vessel (alas, there aren't many of these now) who had flawlessly carted me about the Seven Seas- literally.  I bid goodbye to the Master and the ship, and with my already-cherished acquisition made my way ashore to the Hellenic island adjacent to the ship's anchorage.  In the interest of anonymity, I'll refer to the Master as Wilbur.  I thought very highly of him, and not solely because he once circled his huge ship around a tiny island with a television transmitter for over 2 hours just so I could watch a Formula 1 race.  Wilbur was a great guy, and I was looking forward to getting his gift back to my cellar, where I intended to truly enjoy it years later once it had reached its apogee of maturation. The bottle stayed with me, heavily cushioned in the center of my backpack, throughout my much-segmented journey: to the mainland, on the flight to Paris, the transatlantic flight to New York, and on to Cincinnati, where I was to board the final 55-minute flight to my destination.

My means of conveyance for this leg was a small commuter jet operated by Comair, a subsidiary of the airline listed on my ticket.  I was familiar with these flights, and knew what to expect- no overhead bins; anywhere within 15 feet of the lavatory in the back would smell like a campground outhouse on an August Sunday afternoon after a family jamboree where the grilled chicken didn't quite make it up to 160 degrees Fahrenheit; and a standard-issue male flight attendant who would endeavor to make the experience resemble back-to-back episodes of any show on HGTV. (Note: with the desire to avoid the malicious computer hacking, hissing picket lines outside my residence and sarcastic, surly service at the new restaurant downtown which would inevitably otherwise transpire, I shall reluctantly refrain from detailing here the many juvenile but entertaining ways in which the acronym "HGTV" has been deciphered in my household.) 

Sean, the flight attendant, was performing his dramatic role as gatekeeper of the ladder leading from the tarmac into the fuselage, and would not allow me to board the aircraft with my backpack.  (Note 2:  prospective parents- give your son a gender-ambiguous name, and instantly double the chances that 25 years later, during the pre-Thanksgiving dinner football game on TV, he and the chap he brought home are going to find entertainment value in the fabulous physiques of the players, and not the accompanying sporting spectacle.)  Sean sibilantly insisted that since it wouldn't fit under my seat, he would tag it and stick it in the back.  I resisted the impulse to make a sophomoric retort.

I was wary of losing possession of the backpack, even for 5 minutes; however, I had gone through this process many times before and knew how innocuous it had been- they slip a fluorescent-hued paper tag on the item, place it in the aforementioned compartment, and at the other end, they gingerly load it onto a trolley cart and wheel it over to the aircraft ladder, where you pick it up and continue on your way into the terminal.  As much as I wished to protect the contents from harm or misappropriation (and the backpack also contained such irreplaceable items as my complete medical records), my rapid mental risk management convinced me to render unto Sean that which belonged to me, and proceed to Seat 2A.

I had experienced an embarassing incident on one of these short hops a couple of years before this flight; one that had predisposed me to distrust the entreaties of the small-fry flight attendants and regard them as a kind of Double-A variant of the Big League peanut and beverage-mongers.  The FA (Flight Attendant, although this acronym also translates well into other expressions) in this earlier incident was maitre d'hotel of a short flight out of O'Hare who unkindly noticed that I was attempting to conceal a split and badly overpacked garment bag under my legs in a row with no underseat stowage. 

The bag had breached partly because my arriving flight was 30 minutes late and had naturally docked at the gate farthest away from my connecting flight, causing me to have to again perform the graceless version of the OJ-dashing-through-the-airport terminal imitation and enter the plane red-faced and drenched in sweat as the other passenges glared at me, the reason for their delay.  In front of the packed flight, she politely but forcefully insisted that I surrender the bag to her for safekeeping.  After an actual tug-of-war, she victoriously jammed it into a tiny space immediately aft of the cockpit... wait- oh, never mind... which caused the bag to rip open even more and allowed all of my travelling companions to thoroughly witness the results of my very foolish decision to pack everything I had both taken and acquired on my week-long trip into a flimsy vinyl bag.  The incident was remarkably similar to this:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zg3fT0mdCw

At the other end of the flight, I bounded to the front of the cabin and retrieved my bag as inconspicuously as possible from the jet marm- I could barely contain the contents with both arms, and I descended the stairs off the aircraft and bolted for the terminal ahead of the other passengers, desperately clutching the bursting cornucopia containing my travel paraphernalia.

I thought I had escaped safely without further injury to my wobbly dignity, when just then I heard a woman some distance behind me loose a perfect specimen of a particular rare, full-throated, explosive, ear-splitting hyena laugh- the likes of which only Carol Burnett at her peak could intentionally simulate, and which, experience informed me, could only be the result of a lady in the company of a close friend witnessing something highly embarassing.  Before I could answer the paranoid question "what had I done now?," I heard a man amusedly say "was Tom Jones on this flight?" 

I realized to my Anglo-Saxon horror that a pair of my BVD briefs must have escaped my garment bag and was now sprawled out on the ground in front of every debarking passenger on my flight.  I did not turn around.  I did not slow down.  In fact, I was walking at Mach .65 when I then realized that the pre-worn pair of lost skivvies also prominently sported my name in indelible black ink on its waistband (a requirement of my employer- really.)  I didn't stop until I had exited the terminal and was speeding out of the parking lot in my car, dirty clothes and toiletries strewn about the passenger seat and floor, the bag having now achieved complete incontinence.  And after years of intermittent reflection, I am still convinced that my forsaken underwear remains a veteran tenant of some faded and dusty lost-and-found box at the airport security office, only occasionally removed for 3rd-shift new employee initiations and biennial mandatory training sessions.

I reflected again on this incident as I sat in Seat 2A, attempting to filter out Sean's incessant histrionics, while reminding myself to begin the process of cultural reacclimatization with my Midwestern homeland by once again speaking nasally, referring to carbonated beverages as pop and throttling back on the use of the term "y'all."  The latter is of arguable pertinence, since as far up as Grand Forks, North Dakota, hillbillies will be found within 10 statute miles of any incorporated city.  There is even a Canadian version of the subspecies:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jlS-hN6EmIA&feature=related

Still somewhat deep in thought, I found myself standing on the tarmac under blazing sunshine waiting for my backpack to be retrieved from the aircraft.  Instead of the usual routine where a member of the ground crew would pull out the bags and set them on the trolley cart, I was treated instead to the sight of tagged item after item being fired from inside the ten foot-high compartment as if from an arbalest, then arcing down and thudding onto the concrete.  The fourth item to be so launched was my backpack, which struck the pavement with the jaw-clenching violence of an old Tom & Jerry cartoon.  As the beast-eyed, simian troglodyte responsible insouciantly emerged from the cargo compartment, I stood there motionless, my mouth agape.  From fifty feet away, I could see my backpack begin to bleed onto the tarmac, the precious rioja again free to obey gravity.  All this way, only to be mortally felled just feet from the finish line.  Though I lodged a complaint with Sean's roommate inside the terminal, Comair never followed up, and neither did I.  I have not yet found a domestic source for Faustino I.  To this day, my medical records up to 2004 are edged in brownish-purple.

So much for the minor loss.  Two years later, a true blasphemy to Bacchus was perpetrated.

The movers had shown up at our suburban D.C.-area residence to package and transport our possessions to my next professional locale in Southern California.  The moving company estimated the process to take most of a week, packing included, and to fill a complete long-haul tractor-trailer.  It was mid-August with 80 per cent humidity, and I was glad that my wife and I were only going to be responsible for loading up the Jeep for a cross-country drive.  The three packing ladies were polite and able to ask us questions in intelligible English.  On Wednesday, the loading crew arrived, albeit 4 hours late.  They were forced to park the semi in front of the house and block one of the two lanes of the street, which was actually named a highway and served as such.  The driving demeanor and skill level of Maryland drivers being what it is, all three of the reflective orange plastic warning triangles placed upstream of the truck were run over and destroyed within 40 minutes.  The crew was all Black, and there was immediate friction between them and the packing ladies, who were all Latina (although the Honduran and Guatemalan ladies kept sniping at their Mexican counterpart for her alleged laziness).  The men started out swaggering and cocky, assuring me that everything was on track regardless of their tardiness. 

By mid-afternoon the bloom was off the rose.  The men began to gripe and a second crew was called in to assist.  This crew was all Latino. Less than an hour later I was standing in the front yard prying the two foremen apart after they had begun fighting, while nearby, my pregnant wife remained holed-up in the bathroom with the cats.  The newly-arrived crew stormed off to the taunts of the first squad. 

The men labored on into the night, like a Ford Pinto with a blown head gasket attempting to ascend Pike's Peak.  At 7:30, one of the fellows (referred to by the others as Reverend someone or other) approached me in the living room.  He looked like the twin brother of Otis from Animal House, only with a shorter coiffure. 

Shamalama what?

With bleary yellow eyes, he pleaded with me- "Sir, I gots to get some beer."  I told him I would give them some once they were done, and they got their 12-packs that night at 11:30 when they said they had filled up their truck and could do no more.  There was still a third of the household goods remaining.  My wife and I fell asleep long after midnight, with the truck's diesel engine continuing to idle loudly out front in the street, since the driver remained passed out on our lawn until 4:30 a.m., when he crawled into the cab, released the air brakes and slowly drove away.

At precisely 8 a.m. the next morning, two different fellows from the company's A-team arrived and quietly and professionally had the remaining third of the house packed into their truck by early afternoon.  Their competence caused my opinion of the prior day's cast of characters to become rather lower; in fact, only one notch higher than the crew a decade earlier who had quickly converted my 20 dollars in foolishly-proffered lunch money into a few double-deuce bottles of Colt 45 ("Yo, Billy Dee, whatta YOU do to max yo' relax?"), whereupon I found the crew later that afternoon arising from a nap in the garage.  Their foreman didn't see me in the doorway standing behind him as he stretched and yawned and said to the two gentlemen who were facing me (with faces of frightened horror straight out of a Little Rascals episode), "So Homeboy says we can fit that couch up the stairs, so I guess we got to make that motherf***er happy."  Ah, movers and I go way back...

A reasonable person might have asked, many paragraphs ago, "what's the point of all this?"  It is that my carefully-cultivated wine cache needed to go to California, too.  Some of it would have to be boxed and shipped in the moving truck as there was simply no room for it in the Jeep.  But the absolute top-shelf of my collection could accompany us across country.  I thought that I had the entire problem thoroughly cogitated, with all possible factors addressed.  In the end, it was the thought of the ill effects of a hot Arizona or Oklahoma night in the Jeep while we slept in an adjacent motel that convinced me to ship everything with the movers.  The bottles would be packed inside of wads of heavy paper and securely taped within a thick cardboard box within stacks of many adjoining cardboard boxes, all within a nearly hermetically sealed huge trailer.  In order to reduce the temperature transients even further, I had stowed the really good stuff in a large cooler.  I pictured the 3 hours crossing the Mojave (the most threatening conditions I foresaw) as posing no significant risk.

The wines of highest concern to me were in addition to the many bottles of Bordeaux, Barolo and Dingac (you've likely never heard of that last one) of which I was also fond.  There were also other hard-to-get liquors like a Limited Edition Jameson's Pure Pot Still and a Metaxa 12-star.  Among the items I truly wished to preserve and protect were a '69 Gonzalez Byass Oloroso Sherry, a '63 Leacock's Sercial Madeira, and a '12 Niepoort Colheita Port.  1912.

The two professionals who wrapped up the move did one more thing before they left.  They conducted a very thorough inspection of everything they packed, especially the things which had been outside the DC house and then had me certify the inspection in writing.  This was to prevent the transport of Gypsy Moths.  Well, I was happy to fight this scourge.

At the other end of the trip, after we had blown up the air mattress in our new residence and began our adoption of California culture by having our first "animal-style" In-N-Out burger, checking out the spa out back, and figuring out what a palapa was, we were informed that our household goods were not going to be arriving as expected on the Friday before Labor Day.  Oh.  Well, we'd adapt and rough it for a few more days.

The goods arrived two days after Labor Day, and the Mexican gentlemen sent to unpack worked so hard and efficiently and without any complaint that I had an epiphany about just how truly lazy I am.  Then I received a call on my cell phone from a lady at the California Department of Food and Agriculture, who nonchalantly explained to me that, since it had originated in Maryland, our moving truck had been tagged as suspicious at the Needles Border Protection Station and had to be inspected for Gypsy Moth infestation.  And, since the truck had arrived at the station late Thursday, it had to be impounded until an inspection crew became available on the next regular workday, which would be the following Tuesday.  It began to sink into me that the entire trailer had sat in the middle of the Mojave Desert soaking up the sun in late August for more than 4 consecutive days.  Here is some climate information about Needles from Wikipedia:

Needles, like Death Valley to the northwest, is known for extreme heat during the summers. Temperatures in Needles routinely reach 120 °F (49 °C) in late July and early August. The Needles weather station is frequently reported by the United State government's National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) as the site of the highest daily temperature recorded in the U.S. during the hot desert summers. Needles occasionally sets national or world daily high temperature records. On July 17, 2005, the high temperature at Needles was 125 °F (52 °C), the hottest temperature ever recorded in Needles since record keeping began in 1940, breaking the previous all-time record high of 123 °F (51 °C) four days earlier).  On July 22, 2006, about one year later, Needles experienced a record high low temperature, with a temperature recorded to be 98 °F (37 °C) at 5 AM with a high temperature exceeding 120 °F (49 °C).  The wettest year was 1965 with 9.50 inches and the driest year was 2006 with 0.70 inches.

The impounding of our truck occured in late August 2006, a year noted twice above.

I found the nearest of the liquor boxes and opened it.  The first bottle unwrapped was a Marquez de Murrieta '94 Castillo Ygay Gran Reserva Especial Rioja.  The cork appeared to have emerged about a centimeter, and a single tear of wine had fittingly wept its way to just above the label.  The next bottle was a real favorite of mine, the last of my procurement of '00 Quinto do Bacalhoa.  It had met the same fate as the Ygay, but without the weeping.  I was nearly providing my own at this point.

It appeared to be a total loss.  I can still only guess this, because 6 years later I continue to haul what's left around with me, in denial of the harsh truth.  Maybe one survived.  Every year or so I make a lonely solemn pilgrimmage to the cellar on a night I'm alone, and grimly open one of the undead bottles, only to have my faint hopes utterly dashed as the smell of vinegar meets my nose.  And I slowly traipse up the stairs and silently pour the contents of the bottle down the drain, expressionless, much the same as if I had just buried the family dog.  Some day, in the decades to come, I will have finished this rite and the matter will be finally put to rest.  My wife has long since given up trying to convince me to get it over with at once and just dispose of it all; it is one of those subjects about which she knows not to hector me. 

At least my loss was not in vain.  For I do have the great satisfaction of knowing that I did my part to prevent the ruin of the State of California.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5gGZAIFteAg

Salut.

Movie Night- Vampires, Zombies and Princesses

(Wherein our hapless protagonist launches into yet another middle-aged screed against the experiences of his Life and Times, and consequently finds himself figuratively weeping for the future and literally reaching for the remote.)

Watching a movie is one of my favorite expenditures of discretionary time.  As a male, movie-watching fulfills my genetic requirement to metabolize stress by shifting my brain into park and abandoning it for awhile.  Hopefully, the film will coincidentally entertain me.

Almost all of my movie-watching occurs in front of a television.  I visit the ER more frequently than I go to a movie theater.  The nearest theater is 30 minutes away, but there are more compelling reasons that I have to be dragged there, upon which I will shortly expound.

At home, I can reasonably plan on carving the 10 to midnight timeslot out of the schedule.  I can sit in a comfortable chair, watch a large HDTV, select whatever I feel like watching at that moment from a collection saved to the DVR, and eat or drink anything I want.  I am free to emit hypersonic jets of methane, the only consequence being the resigned disgust of my wife  a few rooms away.  Without distraction, I am free to push "play" and enter a total ouroboric state.

The last time I went to a movie theater, my experience consisted primarily of immersion into the inscrutable universe of Generation Y- youth conceived to the warbly cassette strains of Eddie Vedder's yarl. 

On the night in question, the theater parking lot was filled with diesel-powered monster trucks (huge red rubber testicles swaying from their hitches) and subcompacts festooned with aftermarket aerodynamic appendages of dubious utility.  All had air fresheners hanging from their rear view mirrors.  In Olden Times, air fresheners were only found on the Monte Carlos, Buick Regals and Oldsmobile Delta 88s based in the lively areas of town.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Mxs6A1byIo

For some reason, these odor ornaments have become ubiquitous, and are just as likely to be encountered in the parking lot at a Pinkberry as at Popeye's.  I blame this spread on the cultural reverberations resulting from the musical coup d'etat achieved by That Accursed Noise, which also resulted in the heinous practice of wearing ballcaps backwards.

I see that I have strayed. 

As we made our way across the parking lot, through a minefield of discarded little Red Bull cans, I could hear the loud, staccato conversation of a cackle of Gen-Y males.  Every fourth word was "f**k", or some permutation thereof.  The profligate use of this profanity was meaningless.  The word was used mindlessly as a conjunction, like mortar being slapped between bricks.  The young men came into view as we approached the lights of the theater entryway.  Neo-Goth/Skate-punk/Emo-types, looking like the Children of the Night, only with human-issue canine teeth.  They let the door close in my face, unaware of my existence.  Inside, the f-bombs could be heard trailing off into the distance as they proceeded on their merry way.

The young lady at the ticket counter summoned the strength to lift her eyes to us.  She fell short of having the energy or inclination to return my greeting.  I further incovenienced her by paying with a credit card.  I thanked her as she slid the tickets toward me.  "No problem," she managed to flatly reply.  Ah yes, "no problem."  The motto of a Generation.  A few seconds later a heavy-lidded young man took my tickets and pointed to the third cubicle to our left.  I thanked him.  "No problem," he muttered, before returning to stasis.  The girl at the concession stand actually asked if she could help me, so I felt that the situation was looking up.  I thanked her as she returned my change without making eye contact and her reply should by now be easily surmised. The replacement of "you're welcome" with "no problem" within this cohort is sadly significant.  I remain baffled at how a 20-year old can possibly seem so world-weary.  This lethargy, detachment and indifference must be due to the way actual first-person reality utterly pales next to the myriad virtual worlds from which so many young adults apparently have yet to be truly weaned.  Or it might just be the Midwest in February.

On into our cinema cubicle, which undermined a majority of why we were at the theater in the first place.  The two reasons to see a movie at a theater are for the large screen size and because the movie is interesting enough to not want to wait for it to come out on DVD.  Other potential reasons- such as not having a TV, or not finding it appropriate to take a date back to your house on your premiere evening together- do not pertain to me.  I've been to residences with larger screens than this, but I have also been to theaters even more petite, so I tried to count my blessings as we pried open the clamshell seats with our butt cheeks and sat down.  The theater smelled like air freshener and stale popcorn (although I knew that due to the brussel sprouts I had with dinner, it would soon smell predominantly of me).  My feet stuck to the floor.  The air managed to be both warm and cold at the same time.  No matter, I was contentedly consuming my combusted maize and caffeinated corn syrup while attempting to answer the Footloose trivia question.  I was pleased that we were in our seats and ready for the film ahead of time, which would allow me to fully orient myself to the impending experience.  Bring on the twenty minutes of previews of excessively-kinetic action films with CGI so real it looks fake; politically-correct remakes of beloved '60s and '70s TV shows; duckling-becomes-swan chick-flicks where the bad-boy love interest turns out to be a sensitive, affluent architect; and the entire gamut of movies, all of which would once have starred either Peter Cushing or Vincent Price.

And so, in the midst of this procession of banality, three young ladies plopped down in front of us.  They whispered and giggled, popped their gum, and displayed the qualities of a brace of perpetual motion machines in need of a lube job.  Most annoyingly, they had all apparently fallen heavily off the wagon of Cell Phone Addicts Anonymous.  At least two of the three phones in their possession were being poked away at throughout the entire 2.5 hour film.  The bouncing bright smiley-faced screens were continuously assaulting my concentration, like German Sappers having a go at Eben-Emael.  At about the moment when the 357th text message was dispatched, I surrendered my struggle.  The magical movie trance was irretrievably severed.  For the remaining 2.49 hours of the film, I was just a detached observer of the sounds and images up on the screen as the ladies in front of me held court.  I wistfully yearned for some other comparatively idyllic theater experience, like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rm81LSKJC2k

The entire endeavor also relieved me of $35, not counting gas.

I love movies, but not enough to subject myself, my family or my friends to such an ordeal without conducting a very thorough cost-benefit analysis.  Indeed, I am now less likely to be spotted at a cineplex than Bill Maher at a Baptist barbecue.  So when I discuss films in this space, I will almost certainly be referring to something on cable, on the web, in my DVD collection, or residing somewhere in my weathered old melon.

And as for Generation Y- curse you, Pearl Jam.