When you have to shoot, shoot--don't talk

Oh—I am so sorry to hear of the death of Eli Wallach, age 98. One of the best character actors ever.

I first saw him in The Magnificent Seven, John Sturges’ reworking of The Seven Samurai. He was such a deliciously arrogant bandito, preying on villagers year after year until they called in, well, hit men.

Wallach once told an interviewer, "The big secret in acting is listening to people." Well, that's pretty much the big secret to being a human, and yet so few seem to grasp that notion, much less implement it. Wallach was a great role model in this regard; you definitely saw it on the screen.

In every film, he imbued his character with that deep-seated passion—spaghetti westerns, gangster flicks, comedies: well, I think the San Francisco Chronicle’s Mick LaSalle pretty much says it all, so read his appreciation.

But here’s how good he was: every time some cable channel shows The Holiday, a really awful, treacly rom-com, I record it. Then I fast-forward through all the crap and just enjoy the scenes with Wallach.

What a mensch!

Whoa, man--like, psychedelic!

A friend of mine led me to this very colorful video. No, not that kind of colorful—beautiful, amazing and delightful colorful.

Post by Denise Deitz.

(If you really need an explanation for why this does what it does, okay. It’s about reducing the surface tension on the milk. But does that really matter?)

It’s supposed to be an activity for kids (although in my opinion, you want to closely supervise kids and food coloring), but I think everyone should try it.

It’s the sort of result that people used to consume many strange natural and chemically-produced substances to achieve. And you can do it for pennies. With no post-experience downer, man.

Oh—you’re welcome.

Chances are

I was IMing with a friend the other day and in-between discussing job interviews, Topper on TCM and house repairs, the topic of Virginia came up. I’d said that if I get this next gig I’m interviewing for, I’d take a quick trip back to the D.C. area at the end of July because a couple of friends are renewing their wedding vows.

My friend, who also misses the area, said that if she wins the lottery, she’ll go with me. And I urged her to bring her daughter, too. Here’s how I left it:

“Okay—either of us wins the lottery: 1)House repairs; 2)Virginia; 3)Everything else.”

But some hours later I believe I might have twigged to the flaw in this plan, so I shot her another IM:

“Say—about this lottery-winning… Are you buying tickets? Because I’m not. And this may affect our chances of winning. Um.”

But it’s okay—she replied saying she’d buy one the next day. So all systems go.

Gratitude Monday: A walk

It’s Gratitude Monday and I’m grateful that this morning I went for a walk.

Because I can.

Where's Huggy Bear when you need him?

A while ago I wrote about how much I love the detective novels of Reginald Hill. about the Yorkshire police superintendent Andy Dalziel and his sidekick Peter Pascoe. I also had a few things to say about the BBC series based on those books.

At the time of writing, I hadn’t yet seen Season 8 of the Dalziel & Pascoe series. Well, last week I finally got hold of it and watched the first episode. And…

I’m really, really sorry about that.

Because that sucker would have to ride an elevator up six floors just to hit dreadful. I mean it was God-awful in a way that makes God-awfulness ashamed of itself.

Okay, part of it was guest star David Soul—looking like he’s been rode hard and put away wet, and sounding as though he was afraid he was about to spit out his dentures at any moment. Hutch—call Huggy Bear! ASAP!

But it was way more than that. Colin Buchanan’s Pascoe has had that poker in his butt, I don’t know, frozen. Like his face. He really needs to get rid of that sea urchin in his mouth.

And Warren Clarke. Oh, dear—I just cringe for him. A word sometimes used to describe Hitler’s frenzies, “Teppichfresser” (“carpet chewer”), came to mind. And it’s a pity to have to apply it to a professional like Clarke, but it is what it is.

Also I’m thinking that whoever wrote that dog is in possession of compromising photographs of everyone involved in the production, from the head of BBC on down to the propmaster. Because that’s the only way it could have got backing to actually film that dreck.

Sorry—I shouldn’t refer to it as a dog. Dogs would have implied a better, more coherent job of building character and plot.

I watched the show to the dire end, then ejected the DVD, replaced it in the little case and returned it to the Santa Clara County Library the next morning. (I would have torched it, except then I’d have had to pay the library for it.) I did not bother with the rest of the season.

And I think I may need to burn some sage around the house to cast out the bad, bad juju.

Gack!

Spreading joy

Well, you know, it’s kind of an interesting thing. You’ll recall that on Monday I shared my gratitude for the Encouragers—people in our lives who express unsolicited appreciation for any number of things.

As it happens, I wanted to send a Facebook-and-Twitter friend something particularly beautiful, because he really appreciates art and good design, and I mostly send him the visual equivalent of “Who Let the Dogs Out”.

So I remembered that a few years ago my sister had shared some photos she’d taken, and sandwiched in amongst various shots of cats curled up in emptied-out PC monitors were some absolutely stunning pictures she’d taken of the night-blooming cacti in her front yard.

She’d gone out with a camera, a ladder and a flashlight and just patiently took the most amazing, beautiful pictures.

So I sent one of them.

See what I mean?

He asked if she’d allow him to upload it to Pinterest “Things I Like” board, and the upshot is I ended up sending him another photo as well: a bee. A bee on a flower. A bee on a flower at night.

Later that afternoon I noticed he’d pinned them to his “Art” board, with some pretty amazing (and accurate) comments, which I passed on to my sister.

(You may know that bees are dying off, and scientists haven't been able to figure out what the hell is going on. These photos were shot eight years ago, and my sister said, "Unfortunately, there are so few bees now. Since the flowers only bloom at night and then die, the cacti sounded like a heliport at sunset and dawn. Now they are quiet, most of the flowers without any bees.")

Now, she’d probably have discounted me saying exactly those same things, on account of I’m, you know, her sister. But, as he has no skin in the game except for an appreciation of beauty, she pretty much had to take it in. And it floored her a little bit.

But here’s the deal: I just intended to share something exceptional with a friend, and I ended up making both his day and my sister’s much, much better. And then I was doing the happy dance. Totally win-win.

And, by the way: I really can’t figure out Pinterest, and I certainly don’t need another social media time-suck to distract me from the business of writing, but feel free to pin the hell out of these photos. As my sister says—spread the joy.

Failure to launch

This story came to my attention recently—about how various countries are, um, stretching their military budgets tighter than an aging starlet’s facelifts. Specifically, since February, Finland and Switzerland have been unable to greet airspace violations in the customary manner (which would be by sending up fighters to execute the international air force equivalent of “Yo, dude—WTF?”).

These failures to launch have been due to budget cuts. Specifically, on account of…wait for it…sending up the jets would run into overtime pay for the pilots and ground crews.

As a military historian, here’s what I officially have to say on the matter: well, blow me.

Well—a couple of questions, too. (Oh, come on, you knew there would be questions.)

The Swiss don’t have the budget for OT? The Swiss don’t have enough money from all those billions of dollars deposited in their banks during the 1930s, which they’ve insisted can’t be withdrawn by relatives of the depositors on account of there were no death certificates issued at places like Majdanek? What the hell have they been spending all those francs on?

Also—any members of any military get overtime? Holy crap!

Personally, I’d be really nervous about letting Putin know that all he has to do is attack on a bank holiday and he’ll pretty much have a cake walk, but that’s just me.

Because I’m betting that these OT restrictions don’t apply to the Russians.

If this keeps up, perhaps the Air Force will have to start holding bake sales to buy a bomber.

Throttling the Confederate capital

In June of 1864, Union forces were settling in around Petersburg, a small city about 20 miles south of the Confederate capital of Richmond. Petersburg was a junction for several east-west and north-south railroad lines, which made it critical for supplying whatever armies the South could still field.

Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia had been retreating ever since Ulysses S. Grant took command of all US armies and began driving the Army of the Potomac inexorably south. May had seen several costly battles, which would have stopped any previous Union commander. But not Grant.

Sadly, he was still lumbered with political generals—men who’d been appointed commanders because of their political connections, not because of any kind of military skill or training. The initial attempts in early June to take Petersburg and cut the rail lines failed, so the Federals dug in; the lines extended for about 30 miles.

And there they would stay for nine months.

Gratitude Monday: A little encouragement

Here we are at Gratitude Monday again, and today I’m grateful for the Encouragers.

You know—people who (unsolicited) pour sunshine over you in quantities large and small—via a card, a hug, a tweet, whatever.

The teacher who assures the student that she’s turned in good work—and that she can do still better. The customer who leaves his server a tip and a note: “Thanks!” The friend who reminds you that you’re having a crappy day, not living a bad life. The toddler who helpfully turns the page so you can continue reading Harold and the Purple Crayon.

The world is so full of people who—for whatever reasons—think that positive feedback is finite, and that whatever someone else is given diminishes what they can receive. It’s also got a fair complement of those whose praise is meaningless because it’s dispensed indiscriminately, and is disconnected from any basis in fact. (I’m referring to the contemporary practice of handing out medals or trophies to every kid who plays in the [softball/basketball/soccer/lacrosse] game because “you’re all winners.”)

Today’s gratitude does not refer to either of these groups; although now that I think of it, perhaps they could do with a little encouragement of their own. Guys—bless your hearts.

What I’m talking about does not have to be elaborate; some days “Hey, nice one!” is all you need to put everything into perspective. It just has to be heartfelt.

(It may perhaps seem petty, but one of the biggest pieces of encouragement I’ve had came from a guy I’ve never met, who tweeted, “I like your blog.” Coming from someone who has no vested interest in making me feel good, that was huge. Well, he represented about 20% of my readership, so even more huge.

(And don’t misunderstand—I’ve had massive amounts of support and encouragement from friends over the years, especially through the last few. They make all the difference in the world. I’m just pointing out that you do not have to have a relationship connection or make a lengthy commitment in order to make a profound difference in someone’s life.)

I try to keep this in mind, because here’s the deal: you do not need to have a fat bank account or a high-powered job to be an Encourager. That means I can do it. And so can you.

You just have to be alert to the opportunity and sincere in your delivery. That’s the beauty of it—encouragement feels good on both sides of the act.

And I’m grateful for those who have been Encouragers and for those who have allowed me to be one.

It's a wise child...

Father’s Day is one of those holidays I mostly just sit out, as it has no real meaning for me.

First of all, it strikes me as being a little on the made-up side. Well, I guess all holidays are kind of made-up. But in this instance it was a case of, “Hey, there’s a Mother’s Day; what about fathers? They should have a day, too…” Cue the extended lower lip and toes scuffing the dirt.

(Also—I think this one-day-a-year to honor people who deserve your respect and appreciation the other 364 days as well is kind of a false construct.)

My own dad was one of those people who should just never have been involved in a family, and he wasn’t much, really. So I never had incentive to mark the day even when he was alive.

But as I look around me I see a lot of men who take fatherhood seriously. They make time, regardless of the circumstances; they pay attention; they guide; they ask and answer questions—not just a few times, but come day, go day; year after year. Their children are not trophies, encumbrances, part-time entertainment or a second chance to live their own lives.

It is absolutely one of the hardest jobs there is, and I believe that most fathers—even the ones who might not be considered raging successes—are doing the best they can at it.

So today I give it up for all you guys, wherever you are, who are in it for the long haul, even when it turned out to be not quite what you thought you were signing up for. I hope you know who you are, and I hope your families do, too.