Small victories, great news, old friends.

I met my old friend Gary while in the 6th grade at Welby Way Elementary School in Canoga Park. The year was 1960.

I'm sure calling Gary an "old" friend won't concern him, as we are all getting "old" now. The word "old" these days doesn't conjure up the same images as it did when we were 10. Besides, it's not how many years you have behind you...age is more of a state of mind.

So I've known Gary for about 47 years now. We still talk via email, with an occasional get-together every few years. When myself, Gary, and my friend Bob spent a week here at our house last July, we pledged to hook up more often in the future. Specifically, NOT just for our high school reunions. By the way, our 40th would be this year, if they even have a 40th reunion. The interest in high school reunions wains considerably after the 20th...not to mention the list of classmates who are still around!

And that brings me to the fact that Gary has recently gotten through something that may have excluded him from a future classmate reunion list. His cancer is in remission.

My old friend Gary is a psychologist. And with all that schooling and training in the science of human emotions and behavior, it still doesn't prepare one for those kinds of personal challenges. He conveyed to me many times how being a student of psychology doesn't automatically make you immune to all the issues he is exposed to on a daily basis...in other people. Quite the contrary in fact.
Me...I'm the dork behind the camera!

Filet Mignon with a Madeira, garlic, rosemary, mushroom reduction.

This recipe was designed for two people. When I prepared it last night for a small dinner party, I decided to “stretch” it to accommodate four people. The little 3-4 ounce filets are just enough so you can actually finish the dish without any leftovers. And with the addition of the Caesar Salad, the Au Gratin Potatoes, French Country Green Beans, and Tollhouse Brownie with French Vanilla Ice Cream for dessert...it’s plenty to satisfy even the hungriest dining guest!

Here are the ingredients for the filet part...

2 - 8 ounce filet mignons (Try to find a couple of 1 1/2 inch thick, oblong-shaped cuts.)
4 - slices of applewood smoked bacon
Kosher salt
Fresh ground pepper
1 - tbsp Extra virgin olive oil
Fresh rosemary - about 2 sprigs
2 - cloves garlic
12 - small button mushrooms
3 - ounces Madeira wine
3 - ounces beef stock* (or broth)
1 - tbsp unsalted butter

Preheat oven to 375. Cut each filet in half, giving you four, equal sized pieces. Make sure you trim off all the silver-skinned fat if it hasn’t already been done. (Shame on your butcher or grocery store if it hasn’t. At $15.99 a pound, filets should be trimmed when you purchase them!) With your hand, “mold” each filet to a round shape, and wrap each one tightly with a slice of the bacon. Secure the bacon with a length of butcher twine around the filet. Season with salt and pepper, set aside.

Make sure the button mushrooms are clean, and trim off a small amount of the stem (always do this as this end of the mushroom becomes a bit tough and hard). Dry the mushrooms with a towel. Strip enough rosemary leaves to make 2 tablespoons, chop it coarse. Peel then coarsely chop the garlic cloves.

Add the olive oil to a medium hot stainless steel sauté pan. When the oil is hot (slightly smoking), add the bacon-wrapped filets. Depending on the thickness of the cuts, brown them on each side (about 2 minutes per side). Place the pan in the oven and set a timer for 5 minutes.

Have a few sips of Cabernet Sauvignon while the filets are in the oven, chat with your guests, and tell them a good food story or two. For medium rare, the filets will be almost done at 135 degrees. Remove from the oven. Place the filets on a warm plate and loosely cover with a piece of foil...very loosely, so you don’t steam the meat. Remove all but a tbsp or two of the oil and place the pan on medium high heat. Sauté the mushrooms for about 2 minutes, then add the rosemary and the garlic for another minute or so. Don’t let the garlic burn, it will be bitter if you do. With the pan still on medium high, add the Madeira wine and deglaze the pan (scraping any brown color off the surface) for about 30 seconds. Add the stock and continue to boil, reducing the liquid by at about half. Make sure you shake or stir the pan occasionally. Just before serving, add a tbsp of unsalted butter to the pan, stirring while it melts and incorporates into the reduction.

For plating...remove the butcher string from each filet, place a small amount of the pan reduction liquid in the middle of each plate, put the filets on the liquid. Then evenly divide up the mushrooms, the garlic, and the remainder of the reduction on all four filets.

Sorry, no photos. Since we had guests, I chose not to subject them to my frenetic food styling photo antics. Opting instead to simply sit down and enjoy our dinner while it was still hot!

*Note: If you have demi-glace, use this instead of stock. This will decrease pan reduction time and greatly improve (intensify) the final flavor. There really is no comparison...but making demi-glace is a long, involved process that most people just don’t do. I’ve heard you can buy demi-glace already made, but I’ve never tried it.

Number 60 for an old friend.

We have known each other for nigh on to 32 years now.

We met in 1975 while both working at Shakey’s Pizza Parlor in Arroyo Grande, California. Spending a considerable amount of “after hours” time there with the other managers and employees, we became friends. I remember on many occasion after the locking the doors at Shakey’s, we would sit around shooting the bull, smoking cigarettes (he smoked a pipe), and draining the Budweiser draught keg empty. When the tap produced only foam, it was time to call it a night.

We owned a short-lived swap meet business together...selling socks no less.

We sang songs together with me handling the guitar chores...he, the harmonies to many Beatle songs.

We went through a couple of marriages and divorces together. Experiencing the wonder of childbirth with our respective spouses at nearly the same time. Our kids grew up together.

We had barbeques, dinner parties, birthday celebrations, New Years Eve galas, Halloween extravaganzas, and Luaus. At most of these gatherings, we were also the emcees. He playing party DJ and handling the music...me trying to tell a joke or two. Inevitably, we would end up doing impromptu karaoke sessions and air guitar contests at these same get-togethers.

We learned to golf together on very cold Sunday mornings at a frosty little 9-hole golf course in Pismo Beach. Neither one of us were very good...that wasn’t important. We just did our best...drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, sharing stories and dreams...taking many mulligans.

Our families went on a few camping trips and weekend getaways. One in particular to a cabin at Lake Tahoe. I awoke to find the cabin filled with smoke. It seems one of us forgot to open the flu on the wood-burning stove...we never determined who was really responsible for that oversight. This incident provided many laughs for us years later...becoming known as the Famous Lake Tahoe Early Morning Fire Drill Incident.

We worked together at several radio stations in the 70’s. For a time, we were both DJs. We still have musical trivia contests...challenging each other to “name the song...or the artist...or the year it was recorded”. He has always owned a huge oldies collection...some still on vinyl.

We don’t see each other that often any longer. Geographically, we are not close. But in other ways, we are still very close. He was the officiant at my daughter Jen’s wedding a couple years ago. I think about him all the time. We exchange emails occasionally. And every once in a while, we have an opportunity to meet up. I was able to attend the wedding of his daughter Megan last year. It was great to see him.

He is Peter Hill. And his 60th birthday is Monday, January 29th. Happy Birthday! It’s been a long friendship...I’m sure it will continue for as long as we both are around.

My Birthday Grateful Appreciation List

This is a list of the Top 20 things that made it a joy to get out of bed on my 57th birthday. Why 20? Well, 57 things was stretching it a bit. And a Top 10 just wasn’t enough. They are in no particular order of importance...that aspect of the list is reserved for a place deep inside of my heart...and will remain there.

1. Actually waking up on my 57th birthday. Considering some of things that have happened in my life and the places I have been...that in itself is a miracle.
2. My best friend Bob. Without whose presence in my life, it would be so much more boring and mundane.
3. My sister Kris. The most sensitive, creative, and perceptive person I know.
4. My sister Kim. The most intelligent person I know.
5. My mother and father - Betty & Jim. The wonderful lady with an incredible sense of humor who raised me with love. That great man who taught me how to be a man.
6. My son Jimmy. My namesake, my only son. I am envious of his youth, charm, and intelligence...he will go far.
7. My daughter Jenifer. The perfect daughter other dads could only dream of having. Her caring and devotion is extremely rare...not to mention her creative talents.
8. Ferdinand Porsche. He built the first one.
9. My photography. One of the creative outlets that has helped me survive in this hardened, uncaring society. There is beauty in the world.
10. My writing. My alter ego. The ticket to my vicarious world of adventure.
11. Our home. The only place I truly feel comfortable and safe.
12. My cooking. I love to cook, what else can I say?
13. My eyes. For allowing me to be able to see what is beautiful in the world.
14. My hope. For helping me move on when it is necessary.
15. My sentimentality. For allowing me to reminisce about the good things.
16. My empathy. For giving me the desire to teach, mentor, and help others.
17. My creative self. For giving me the gift of seeing way beyond three dimensions.
18. My love of music. For its ability to cheer me up, to motivate me, and help me dream.
19. A good, strong cup of coffee with cream and sugar in the morning. If you don’t know already, you won’t understand!
20. My wife Loretta. The most kind, caring, and loving lady I have ever met. I count my blessings every day because of her.

This list is my birthday present to myself. I need nothing more. Except to remind myself daily of the things I am fortunate to have in my life. I extend my thanks to every person on this list.

Well, maybe I want (need) one more "thing"...that new Canon 16 megapixel camera!

I would like to see more filamentous outgrowth of dead cells from the skin on my head.

Hair. It’s a dead issue. Especially for me and my peers as it has been falling out steadily for about 25 years now!

I’ve always heard that hair is dead. So, I did a little research. And yes, it is indeed dead cells found only in mammals. Hair is actually made up of proteins called keratins. And as indicated in the title of this blog, it sounds kind of gross. But, I will avoid all the technical jargon as this can be found through any manner of internet search...plus, it’s a bit boring, mundane, and doesn’t provide much of a vehicle here for humor or satirical comments. Here’s a hair link for you.

Hair was also a hit musical in the long-hair 60’s. And subsequently, a hit song by the Cowsills..."Gimme a head with hair...long beautiful hair..."

Human hair is styled, combed, brushed, shampooed, blow-dried, teased, curled, flattened, infused, colored, highlighted, streaked, shagged, and shaved. We, as a species, are obsessed by hair. It comes in several natural textures and colors. There is straight, curly, kinky, and downright frizzy hair. Available natural colors are black, brown, red, blonde, and grey. Blonde hair, of course, is available in a multitude of unnatural shades, some of which include dishwater, peroxide, and strawberry.

Insects, by the way, do not have hair. They have insect bristles. Though it appears as I grow older, some of those follicular protrusions have begun to sprout from various orifices on my body *read* ears and nose...to my dismay.

For the semantically obsessed...non-human mammals don’t have hair...that’s called fur.

The hair just above our eyes is there to keep dust and debris out of our peepers. The remainder of these dead keratin strands were placed on various parts of our bodies to provide warmth. Evolution (or divine intervention if you are in that camp) has removed most of the full body hair simply because, due to the advent of clothing, it is not needed as much any longer. And maybe because of global warming...who knows?

Here is another tidbit of hairy trivia. Pubic hair is technically referred to as androgenic hair. I became a bit distracted from my editorial mechanics when I Googled pubic hair and found this Wikipedia page. Check it out. If you don’t think the internet has changed the world...you need to click on the above link! It even describes the various names for different patterns of pubic styling...with detailed photos...including the landing strip and the triangle (tortilla chip) styles! Don’t click on that link if you are sensitive to seeing photos of frontal nudity...humans by the way. If you are under 18...ask your mommy first.

For many of us, gone are the days when maintaining a working blow dryer was a necessity. Performing a self-administered near-shave with a Wahl Pro II and 1/4” attachment is all I require now. In fact, when the weather warms up, yours truly may go back to the Yul Brenner look again, something I preferred for the past 5 years. Grooming this hair “style” simply requires a Gillette Mach3 and a steady hand every other day. I pledged long ago to never participate in that futile subtrifuge known as “augmentation”. And a “comb-over”? Let’s not even go there!

“Don’t ever have to cut it ‘cause it stops by itself” Your hair will never stop growing, even though it is dead. For me, I still have all my hair...it’s just on the inside now.

I never choose the right checkout line!

Have you ever been behind annoying people while in line at a checkout stand? Well I have. For some odd reason, I have been subjected to this sometimes downright rude inconvenience a lot lately. Check that. I have been subjected to this a lot most of my life. Evidently I suffer from, among other things, the dreaded Bad Judgement Choosing a Checkout Line Syndrome.

Wednesday, January 24th - Michael's (Arts & Crafts store) - Two old bags, God bless ‘em, stood there for what seemed like 10 minutes trying to help each other figure out how much money to take out of their purses to pay for their purchases...all in nickels and pennies. Then, adding insult to my injury, one of them decided it was the right time and place to dig a wod of what looked like used Kleenex out of her purse and start blowing her nose...over and over.

Tuesday, January 23rd - Save Mart (our local supermarket) - The cashier and the manager saw fit to stand there for at least 5 minutes telling the lady in front of me how much she looked like “that girl from Sex & the City”. Finally, a box-girl came over and said, “Yea...she looks like Kristin Davis!” At that point, the lady in question went on and on about how “she gets that all the time”...then went on to say, “I don’t know who that is...but a lot of people tell me that”. I was almost tempted to say, “Lady...you look like something...but it ain’t no Kristin Davis!”

Saturday, January 20th - Am/Pm - With at least a half dozen people in line behind him, a goofy-looking guy stood at the counter for 10 minutes while the only clerk on duty tried to get his old, beat up lottery forms to go through their machine. Then, the goofy-looking guy decided to buy some lottery “scratchers”...unfortunately, he had a horrible, indecipherable speech impediment...pointing and mumbling for another 5 minutes in futile attempts to get the clerk to find the ones he wanted in the dispenser...all the while the rest of us in line, which was now out the door, huffed, shook our heads, and rolled our eyes.

Wednesday, January 17th - Save Mart - Lady in front of me with coupons, food stamps, and writing a check...’nuff said?

Tuesday, January 16th - Costco - Dumb ass in front of me who forgot an item, and ran back into the store in the middle of his checkout. This one ended nicely though. He was gone so long, that the checker canceled his checkout, and put all his stuff back in a basket. The guy came back and was actually pissed off at the whole scenario!


I seem to be a magnet for things like these. I am never able to choose the right checkout line, though Loretta is good at it. She finds good parking spaces as well!

I guess I just don’t live right.

By the way, just for the heck of it...here’s a photo of Kristin Davis...and it looks nothing like that person in front of me at the checkout line in Save Mart! Just in case that person is reading this blog.

Yea...right!

New Years Non-resolutions - Redux

Since we are still deeply engrossed in what is loosely referred to as the New Year, I’ve decided it’s time to “retire” some things...people...sayings...words...and habits. Generally speaking, anything I (we) don’t need in my (our) life any longer.

The items on this arbitrary list of the overused, the untimely, the out-of-date, and the downright silly are long overdue for a fling toward the circular file of life.

1. The word “dude”. Yesterday I heard it used at least a dozen times in one hour while in the company of a very young male friend of ours, and he was referring to a female friend.
2. George Bush. This can also be assumed here to represent most of our current foreign policy movers and shakers who seem now to appear “clueless”.
3. That nasty little secret habit Loretta and I have involving a product called “Swisher Sweets Little Cigars”.
4. Our dependence on foreign oil.
5. Winter. I used to love it. Loretta has always hated it. I want the warmth of the sun back!
6. Cheesewiz. More specifically, the Cheesewiz found in the pressurized spray can. It ain’t a cheese product folks.
7. Late Night Infomercials. More specifically, the ones claiming “You can make a million dollars just like I did”. They made the million dollars bilking unsuspecting insomniacs out of their $39.95.
8. Millionaires who tell you that money does not make you happy.
9. All T.V. reality shows NOT on the National Geographic channel.
10. Joan and Melissa Rivers. When was the last time you met anyone who is fan of or takes these two seriously.
11. Hip Hop songs whose words would make a sailor blush. On second thought, all Hip Hop music.
12. Having to look at body piercing and excessive tattooing on ugly people. There should be a Board of Tattoo and Body Piercing set up to approve or disapprove any of this on a person-by-person basis.
13. SPAM. Not the Hormel, meat-like gak in a can...the e-mail junk.
14. Hollywood News programs telling us about all those Hollywood bad boys and girls. Do you really have any sympathy for the Lindsay’s, the Paris’, the Downey Jr’s, and all the other 15-minute-famous, once-famous, once-rich, now-sad, in-therapy celebrities?
15. People who tell you to “...cheer up, look at the bright side, you could be dead..remember the movie Pollyanna?”

Yes, this list is arbitrary...unfocused...wandering...non-specific...improperly written...mundane...judgemental...stereotypic...trivial...and silly. With that in mind...

16. People who blog lists of things *of which they are sick*.

"Let's have cornbread!"

Every once in a while, my wife Loretta steps up to the plate (pardon the pun) and suggests I make something for dinner that she wants. Being the totally accepting person she is, most anything I suggest (and make) is fine with her. In the 11 plus years we have been married, I have always been the cook. I love to cook. She claims she used to love to cook. But since she's been with me, "It's just too intimidating to cook anymore", is her "excuse". We truly do have a symbiotic relationship in many ways...especially when it comes to the culinary end of it.

So, the other day Loretta suggested I "make corn bread in that little cornbread thingy" we've only used a couple times. The corn bread "thingy" being the cast iron pan with six little corn shapes in it. I agreed. And I dug out a recipe for corn bread with a few "extras" in it.

This is technically a recipe for Skillet Cornbread, to be made in a large, cast iron skillet. But I've adjusted the cooking time to accomodate that "little corn bread thingy".

3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup cornmeal
2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup milk
3 tablespoons butter, melted
1 egg
1 cup fresh corn kernels (about 1 ear of corn) or 1 can (7 ounces) corn kernels, drained
1/4 cup grated cheddar cheese
1/4 cup chopped scallions (about 2 medium-size)
1 small jalapeno, seed, finely diced (optional)
Pinch paprika

Heat oven to 450 degrees F.

Place one of those cast-iron corn bread pan "things" in the oven for about 10 minutes.

Whisk together the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder and salt in a medium-size bowl. Whisk together the milk, 2 tablespoons of the melted butter and the egg in a small bowl. Stir milk mixture into flour mixture until evenly moistened. Fold in corn kernels, cheese, jalapenos, and scallions until evenly distributed.

Using an oven mitt, carefully remove the hot skillet from the oven. Brush the bottom and sides of hot skillet with the remaining 1 tablespoon melted butter (butter will sizzle as soon as it hits the skillet). Spoon the batter into the skillet, spreading it to the edges of each little corn mold. Sprinkle top with the paprika. Bake for 10 minutes minutes or until the top of the little corn breads are golden . If you make it in a full size cast-iron skillet, increase cooking time to about 25 minutes.

Remove skillet to wire rack and let corn bread cool 10 minutes. Serve warm. It makes about 8 of these little molds.

We had ours with a great Charra Bean recipe similar to chili. But it goes well with any chili recipe and a crisp, green salad.

Enjoy.

"Excuse me...are you Simka Dahblitz-Gravas?"

I was a manager many years ago at a popular restaurant on the Central Coast of California. Over the period of the one year I worked there, I ran into a number of famous and near-famous people...actual "celebrities" if you will.

One such celebrity encounter happened as follows.

It was a weekday evening, a Wednesday I think. I was the M.O.D. And at this restaurant, there was always a manager at the door, greeting and seating the guests as they came in. Unlike most eateries today where you are not only NOT greeted by a manager...you are NOT greeted at all! If you are fortunate enough to get any attention upon entering a restaurant, it will be by some 17 year old gum-chewing bimbo...and only when she sees fit to finish her conversation with the other 17 year old gum-chewing bimbo on duty. I digress...

This weekday Wednesday at this popular Central Coast restaurant was much like any other weekday evening around 8:00 pm. The dinner rush was over, and it was kind of slow. No one was waiting to be seated, the lobby was empty of people.

A young lady walked in the lobby, alone. She was maybe 5’ 5’’ tall, quite slender...very long, frizzy hair hanging about her shoulders...wearing a dark colored, floor length rain coat of sorts. She also had little, John Lennon sunglasses with red lenses...and a big smile. She appeared very bohemian and hippy-like. Our conversation went something like this...the year was 1989...

Me: “Hi there. Welcome to McLintocks. How ya’ doin’?” (in my best managerial tone)
She: “I’m good. How YOU doin’?” (with what sounded like an East coast accent).
Me: “Great...thanks. Are you here for dinner tonight?”
She: (Cocking her head to one side and smiling wider) “Well...I had dinner here last night with my friend...(pausing, tilting her head the other way)...and we had ribs”.
Me: “Oh...how were they?”
She: “They were really, really good!”
Her high little voice sounded like a little girl’s, though I could see that she was at least in her late twenties.
Me: “Oh great”
She: “The problem is...it’s my dog’s birthday today...”
Me: “It’s your dog’s birthday today?”
She: “Yes, it’s my dog’s birthday today. And I forgot to take the rib bones home with me.”
At that moment, I just stared at her. She was cute. And had big, flashy eye lashes and big blue eyes behind the John Lennon glasses.
Me: “And you want to know if I could get you some rib bones for your dog’s birthday?”
She: Right!!! Exactly! (Letting out a little giggle that sounded somehow familiar)

Then I finally realized who she looked like. Since I was in my flirt mode already, I thought this next statement wouldn’t be too out of line. I felt we actually had a “thing” happening.

Me: Has anyone ever told you look just like Carol Kane?”
She: (Her coy little smile in full bloom) “Ah huh” (Looking straight into my eyes)
There was another moment of silence where neither one of us said anything. We just looked at each other. Like I said, I really think we had “thing” going on here.
Me: “Are you Carol Kane?”
She: “Ah huh.”
From that point on, I really didn’t know what the right thing to say was. I was a bit embarrassed. I felt like a kid at a junior high dance trying to get the courage to ask a girl to dance.
Me: “Wow. What brings you to the Central Coast?”
She: “We’re making a movie around here with Steve Martin and Rick Moranis called My Blue Heaven...”

I don’t recall the rest of my conversation with Carol Kane...I was much too smitten by then. I did get her some rib bones for her dog’s birthday. Thanked her for coming in and said goodbye. She was very sweet.

Carol Kane played Simka Dahblitz-Gravas on the T.V. show Taxi...Latka Gravas’ (Andy Kauffman) wife...earning her two Emmys in the process. She has been in quite a few movies (besides My Blue Heaven). That flick wasn’t her best work...nor was it Steve Martin’s by the way. Carol Kane still does movies and a lot of stage work. She'll be 55 this year.

Other celebs I've had the opportunity of running into, at that place and other restaurants in which I worked, include Mark Hamill, Fess Parker, John Madden, Lou Ferrigno, John Ritter, and George Fenneman (Groucho Marx’s announcer on You Bet Your Life) among others.

But my little encounter with Carol Kane was the most memorable. It was just me and her...in the empty lobby of a restaurant...talking about rib bones.

10 Stupid Things to do for attention

Some 52 year old guy is planning to swim the Amazon...some 3500 miles...from where it begins all the way to its mouth on the Atlantic Ocean...with nothing but a wet suit and some cream to prevent that little fish from swimming up his urethra. Among other things for concern: piranhas, crocodiles, poisonous snakes, insects, blood sucking leeches, and sharks (that swim up the river). To keep the sharks and piranhas away from him, they will dump buckets of blood in the river around him...evidently distracting the bad guys. I’m not sure this is such a good thing to do...the actual Amazon swim, or the buckets of blood thing.

For anyone wanting to do stupid things for attention, money, or charity...here’s a short list you may want to consider for your next “stunt”.

1. Walk through Compton at 2:00 am dressed in a KKK outfit.

2. Cover your body in wasp pheromones in July and walk anywhere in the San Joaquin Valley.

3. Dress up like a baby lamb and jump on stage at a Seigfried and Roy show.

4. Wear a pheasant costume and go on a hunting trip with Dick Cheney.

5. Stick a Black Mamba in your shorts and do the “moonwalk dance”.

6. Tell Rosie O’Donnell you admire Donald Trump.

7. Tell Donald Trump you admire Rosie O’Donnell.

8. Audition for American Idol in Seattle (or anywhere).

9. Audition for the next Jackass movie.

10. Stand up at a Star Wars convention and say any one of the following:
**The “force” sucks.
**Han Solo was gay.
**General Grievous was my role model.
**You guys smell like bantha doo doo.
**Jar Jar Binks was a good idea.
**The Star Wars Saga should’ve ended with Return of the Jedi!
**Princess Leia was not a babe!

Make sure you have a “reality show” camera crew on hand at any one of these “stunts”. Your widow will make a bundle on DVD sales.

The Trauma of the Liver and Onions

This afternoon while preparing an item for dinner tonight, I was reminded of something in my past that I refer to as The Trauma of the Liver and Onions.

We’re not having having liver and onions tonight. Hell no! But we are having charra beans that require the sautéing of bacon and onions. Normally, the smell of cooking those two items together is quite pleasant...for most people. But for me, it brings back memories of being forced to eat something that, in my opinion, should not be eaten!

This whole thing goes back to when I was a child, being “coerced” into putting liver in my mouth, chewing it, and swallowing it. Only to find out that it wouldn’t go down. Or more accurately, it came back up.

The like or dislike of liver and onions is not a subjective thing. It is objective...A or B...you love it or you hate it...there is no middle ground. I’ve never heard anyone say, “Yea, I kind of like it.” They say, “Ooooh, I love liver and onions.” Or, “Oh my God, I can’t stand that crap!”

They say liver is an excellent, concentrated source of high-quality protein, vitamins, and minerals. Liver is also a concentrated source of cholesterol. All that notwithstanding...it tastes like shit! It is where the body stores toxins, poisons, and other nasty stuff. It is not something humans should be eating!

My parents made me eat it. Maybe they made me eat it a few times, maybe just once. But once was enough. I do remember they finally made something else for my sisters and I on the nights that my father requested liver and onions. He loved it.

One of the methods used to force ingest this stuff, was to cut it into tiny bites, mix this into my mashed potatoes, then stick a big old forkful in my mouth. “Open your mouth. Now swallow it! Or we’re not going to Disneyland!”. Well, they may not have held the Disneyland thing over my head...but there was some sort of deterrent offered up for spitting it out. But I did spit it out. I couldn’t swallow it. I gagged and gagged. It could not be done. I even tried hiding it under my mashed potatoes...or sneaking as much as I could to the dog when they weren't looking.

Many friends and acquaintances of mine love liver and onions. My best friend loves it. One of my ex-wives loved it. In fact, I think that is the last time I actually smelled this nasty material being cooked in my house. When I refused to make it, she decided to make it herself one night. She did not know how to cook anything, but she tried cooking liver and onions. Picture a large, heavy metal skillet...placed over an electric stove burner turned up as high as it would go. When the surface of the pan was glowing white hot, she dumped in one of those plastic tubs of beef liver. No seasoning, no flour, no pounding out, no draining of the blood, no oil...just 500 degrees of blazing pan. You would have thought that this deep red pile of bovine organ meat had come back to life. It started dancing around, all over the pan. The smoke was billowing up...the blood was spattering all over the stove and wall behind it. The stench of it filled our little apartment. When she thought it was done, she plopped it on a plate and tried to eat it. It wasn’t very appetizing, even for her...a liver lover. The stove and wall looked like a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Even chicken livers gross me out. I’ve even tried those recently. Not gonna happen. Even with all the seasoned flour, the crispy coating, the frying in butter, the sautéed onions...they still taste like liver. Chicken livers are for catfishing. You put them out in the sun all day, let 'em get real nasty smelling...then ya' go fishing for catfish. They love 'em! Don’t even get me started on liverwurst, or foie gras, or pate. They’re simply different forms of liver disguised as a delicacy of some sort.

I guess I was just never introduced to organ meat dishes the right way. Even sweetbreads (the endocrine gland)...can’t hack ‘em. At a huge western steakhouse I worked, these were a specialty. They would cook these slimey, skin-colored nuggets in liquid, cool them, slice them, then grill them. One night at a special event (after a considerable amount of Jack Daniels embibement on my part), I ate a bunch of BBQ’d sweetbreads...thinking it was trip tip! Fast forward one hour later when I was seeing Jesus while hanging over my toilet. I suppose it could have been the J.D.

So, right now my house smells like two thirds of my least favorite dish in the whole world. It smells like onions and bacon...all I would need to do is add liver, and I would be headed for a prayer session with the porcelain god.

My next rant about food not fit to eat: Caviar! I’ve tried, but it still smells like trout bait to me.

As a public service to any reader of this blog who is not liver challenged (as I am), here is a link to a Beef Liver recipe page. Have at it!

California Dreamin'

Stopped into a church...I found along the way. Well I got down on my knees...and I began to pray...

For those of us brought up in the fifties and sixties, that line from California Dreamin’ is forever etched in our minds. The year was 1965.

In that year, My Fair Lady won the Oscar for Best Picture. Bill cosby starred in television’s I Spy. The Dodgers beat Minnesota in the World Series. The cost of a postage stamp was 5 cents. Lyndon Johnson was president. The first U.S. combat troops arrived in Vietnam. I had my driver’s license learner’s permit. And the Mamas and Papas had a hit song called California Dreamin’.


Though California Dreamin’ was not their biggest hit (that distinction is held by Monday, Monday that came out the following year), it is for most of us their most recognizable song.

And arguably, the most recognized voice in that ultimate of sixties American pop ensembles was Denny Doherty. He is the member who soloed that line at the top of this page...along with songs like Monday, Monday...and I Saw Her Again. Mama Cass, of course, was the other member whose voice provided many of the solos in so many of their tunes. John Phillips and Michelle Phillips rounding out the foursome’s cast.

But it was Doherty who most rock historians credit with the group’s signature sound. His silky, dulcet-toned voice providing the base from which the Mama and Papas rich background harmonies would emerge.

I had the opportunity to see Denny Doherty perform live. It was at a fundraising event in 1998. The “Mamas and Papas” performed, Dougherty being the only original from the group that then included Scott MacKenzie (who sang San Francisco).

The Mamas and Papas existence as a group was tumultuous and short-lived. They officially disbanded in 1968. Some of the details can be found on this site.

Cass died of a heart attack in 1974 (not from choking on a chicken sandwich). John Phillips died in 2001. Denny Doherty passed away in Toronto on January 19, 2007 after a short illness.

...you know the preacher likes the cold...he knows I’m gonna stay. California Dreamin’...on such a winter’s day.

So many of them are gone now.

Are you afraid of the dark?

Are you afraid of the dark? I think everyone is to some extent. When I was a child, I was afraid of the dark...just like most little kids. I remember having to sleep with some sort of light on near my bed, quite possibly one of those little nightlights that plug into the outlet. Sometimes, my mom would leave the hall light on just outside my bedroom, then close my door part way. That usually worked for me. My father didn't really go for that, but he "allowed" it. "What are you scared of? There's nothing different in the dark from the light. Watch.", he would say while switching the light off and on, "See?". Well, I couldn't really see, especially when the light was off. Even quickly switching the light on and off scared me a little. Those things that live in the closet are ready to come out at any time!

Of course, every child knows there is a difference from the dark to the light. In the dark...there are monsters.

I remember one night in particular when I was 8 or 9 years old. My parents went out for the evening and us kids stayed home with my grandmother. Of course, we went to bed early...grandmothers do that...make you go to bed early. When my grandmother stayed with us, she would sleep in the bottom trundle bed in my room, just below mine. We were all tucked away, including grandma. She went to sleep immediately. I laid awake, hearing strange sounds inside and outside of the house. I think I laid there for an hour or so listening to what sounded like someone walking up our driveway (my room was in the front of the house, the driveway just outside my window). It wasn't a hard shoe clicking sound, but more like a step...and then a drag. A step...then a drag. A step...then a drag....getting louder and louder. This went on for what seemed like forever. I had the covers pulled up tightly over my head, with just a small hole for one eye to peek out. Of course, I never looked out the window. I just peered out through my little blanket opening into my darkened room. That step...then drag sound went on and on...getting closer and closer. Whatever it was, it must be real close now, coming up the driveway, just outside my window. I imagined that step...then drag sound belonged to some crippled maniac roaming the neighborhood in the middle of the night. And he had finally chosen our house to terrorize. He would come up to my window and start banging on it...until the window broke. Then he would crawl in the window and be in the house...right over where I was sleeping. Step...drag. Step...drag. Then something else happened. Between the step...and the drag...there was a cough. And then another cough. And that cough was coming from right inside my bedroom!

I would have screamed bloody murder right there, had it not been for that fact that I realized the cough came from my grandma sleeping just a couple feet away. A few little coughs in between her breathing...her wheezing breathing that sounded like a step...then a drag of someone's foot. The sound of the maniac outside my window, creeping up our driveway was actually my grandma's breathing cycle. And since she smoked a couple packs of unfiltered Pall Malls every day...it was quite an unusual sound at times. Couple that with my rich imagination, paranoia, and fear of the dark...and you have the makings of one helluva scary scene for a 9 year old.


I'm not real concerned about the dark now, as a middle aged adult. In fact, it really hasn't bothered me for a long time. Although you will never catch me staring into the dark from my bed for long periods of time. My imagination is way too rich for that!

As I got a little older, say my early teen years, my biggest fear was staying in a house alone at night. Now that was frickin' spooky. It really didn't happen all that often as I had two younger sisters, and I was the babysitter when my parents went out at night. But, when my sisters went to sleep...I was pretty much in the house alone...sort of. On those nights, I would turn on all the lights in the house, make sure all the curtains and blinds were closed, curl up in front of the television...and freak out! The only really weird thing that happened was when a friend of mine came up to the house and started tapping on the window outside our den. When I realized who it was, I was relieved of course. "Hey, come on in. Want something to eat? Why don't you stay for a while. The Rifleman is on. I'm scared shitless!"

I finally realized later in life that I wasn't the only one with these fears. Obviously other people had these same concerns as children, and as adults. Most of them became screenwriters I think. It's probably good therapy writing about your fears, bringing them out in the open...into the light so to speak.

As I sit here in front of my computer at 3:30 am, in my dimly lit office, writing this blog...I can still hear some of those same sounds that gave me chills as a child. I guess I just process them differently as an adult. They don't concern as much as they used to. "What was that noise out in the kitchen?" Just the icemaker in the refrigerator. "What is that strange sound...the one that sounds like someone slowly walking by, just outside the window?" Oh, that's just one of our three dogs snoring...or is it Loretta snoring? No matter. "What's that screaming sound off in the distance?" Probably just the neighbor's cat. "And what is that dark figure standing at the end of the darkened hallway...slowly walking toward me. The one with the bloody knife in his hand?"

Step....drag. Step...drag.

Casablanca - a classic to be remembered.

For many of us more mature movie fans (mature referring here to being old), Casablanca is the Number One movie ever made...for many reasons.

Every couple of years I end up watching it...usually by accident, having stumbled upon it already running on TCM. But to truly appreciate Casablanca, one must set aside 94 minutes of time, unplug the phone, and watch it from the beginning to the end.

Casablanca did win a few Oscars. Best Picture (1944), Best Director (Michael Curtiz), Best Screenplay (Julius Epstein, Phillip Epstein, Howard Koch). It was nominated for Best Actor (Humphrey Bogart), Best Supporting Actor (Claude Rains), Best Cinematography, Best Editing, and Best Music. I’ve also read that the Screen Writers Guild declared that this was the best script ever written. With that in mind, here a few of my favorite lines and exchanges from the movie. Almost every line in this film is classic...here are just few.

Berger: We read five times that you were killed, in five different places.
Victor Laszlo: As you can see, it was true every single time.

Anina: Monsieur Rick, what kind of a man is Captain Renault?
Rick: Oh, he's just like any other man, only more so.

Ugarte: You despise me, don't you?
Rick: If I gave you any thought I probably would.

Yvonne: Where were you last night?
Rick: That's so long ago, I don't remember.
Yvonne: Will I see you tonight?
Rick: I never make plans that far ahead.

Captain Renault: What in heaven's name brought you to Casablanca?
Rick: My health. I came to Casablanca for the waters.
Captain Renault: The waters? What waters? We're in the desert.
Rick: I was misinformed.

Captain Renault: What is your nationality?
Rick: I'm a drunkard.
Captain Renault: That makes Rick a citizen of the world.

Rick: [to Ilsa] I wouldn't bring up Paris if I were you, it's poor salesmanship.

Rick: You know what I want to hear.
Sam: [lying] No, I don't.
Rick: You played it for her, you can play it for me!
Sam: [lying] Well, I don't think I can remember...
Rick: If she can stand it, I can! Play it!
(Play it again, Sam was never said in Casablanca)

Rick: Who are you really, and what were you before? What did you do and what did you think, huh?
Ilsa: We said no questions.
Rick: ...Here's looking at you, kid.

Ferrari: Might as well be frank, monsieur. It would take a miracle to get you out of Casablanca, and the Germans have outlawed miracles.

Rick: Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine.

Rick: Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Rick: How long was it we had, honey?
Ilsa: I didn't count the days.
Rick: Well, I did. Every one of them. Mostly, I remember the last one, the wild finish. A guy standing on a station platform in the rain, with a comical look on his face, because his insides have been kicked out.

Rick: You'll excuse me, gentlemen. Your business is politics, mine is running a saloon.

Captain Renault: I've often speculated why you don't return to America. Did you abscond with the church funds? Run off with a senator's wife? I like to think you killed a man. It's the Romantic in me.
Rick: It was a combination of all three.

Rick: If it's December 1941 in Casablanca, what time is it in New York?
Sam: My watch stopped.

Captain Renault: [to Rick regarding Ilsa] She was asking about you earlier in a way that made me very jealous...

Rick: Why did you come back? To tell me why you ran out on me at the railway station?
Ilsa: ...Yes.
Rick: Well, you can tell me now. I'm reasonably sober.

It starred Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. Claude Rains, Peter Lorre, Paul Henreid, Sydney Greenstreet, and Conrad Veidt provide an extraordinary supporting cast. There is also a rich list of secondary characters, each and every one outstanding...and making Casablanca one of the best movies ever made.

A note or two on the cinematography for which Arthur Edeson was nominated for an Oscar. It is in black and white, and may be considered film noir. But when you watch Casablanca, look for the details and elements behind the actors. The shadows, the nuiances of lighting and character placement, the soft-focus closeups. In several scenes, shadows on the walls tell their own story. Palm frawns, an exotic dancer at the Blue Parrot, a shadow of the parrot and perch itself, Rick opening his office safe. These cinemagraphic techniques are still used today by our top film makers. One example of an homage to this shadow technique: when Speilberg’s Indiana Jones first walks into Marian’s bar in Nepal.

I’m greatly anticipating The Good German (opening Friday). It is said to be very reminiscent of Casablanca.

Everyone Comes to Ricks was the title of the unproduced play that was renamed Casablanca for the film. That’s also a Captain Renualt line in the movie.

Every one should see Casablanca. No CG, no monsters, no blood, no Aikido fights, no on-screen sex, no explosions. Just highly stylized movie making in its most classic form.

A classic to be remembered.

Star Wars 7: The Fallen Hero...yes, it continues.

Most of us stalwart (and low-grade) Star Wars fans are aware that Revenge of the Sith may be the last installment in Geoge Lucas’ epic saga of good and evil. Episode III was the last one filmed, though not the last in the chronology of the Star Wars story proper. That was Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi (originally titled Revenge of the Jedi btw).

For the uninitiated, here is how all six movies came to us...in the order they were filmed. Be patient...I will be getting to Episode VII in a moment.

Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope (1977)
Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back (1980)
Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi (1983)
Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace (1999)
Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones (2002)
Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith (2005)

George and his merry band of LucasFilm men and women are busy at work on Episodes 7, 8, and (I think) 9. Doing all of this from the safety and security of (possibly) an underground bunker deep in the hills of Marin County. These further episodes will not be theatrical...they will be for television. What the plot lines will concern I will not elaborate here...simply because I don’t care! But if you are a true SW Geek, you may want to visit this SuperShadow.com site. They claim, among other things, to be the only official site of George Lucas. This mysterious SuperShadow guy is supposedly a highly-paid consultant to LucasFilm and has been instrumental for years in the development of all the Star Wars and Indiana Jones scripts. Check it out and decide for yourself whether or not this guy is for real!

According to this SS site above, Episode 7 picks up thirty years after Return of the Jedi...remember...Episode 6? Pardon me for changing to numbers from Roman numerals...it may be easier to follow! Here are a few tidbits. The evil emperor (Sidious) and Vader are long gone...remember? In Return of the Jedi, Vader ran out of gas fighting Luke and was revealed at the end of Episode 6 to look like Humpty Dumpty without his cool Darth Vader helmet. Between you and me, I was really disappointed that he didn’t look like James Earl Jones. Just before that, Vader picked up the evil Emperor and tossed him in the reactor...or somewhere that symbolized Hell I think.

Anyway...in the years since Endor (the forest planet with those annoying Ewoks), the remnants of the Empire have been defeated and the New Republic formed out of the ashes of the Empire. Evidently, enemies against the New Republic still exist (of course!). A rogue group of Dark Jedi have emerged that threaten the stability of the New Republic. Here now, according to SuperShadow.com, is a sampling of the players in Episode 7. There is a Dark Jedi named Asp. Padawan Ben Skywalker is the son of Luke and someone named Mara Jade. And padawan Anakin Solo, is the son of Han and Leia...yes, it looks like they hooked up after dancing with the Ewoks! These two are buddy Jedis...sound familiar and predictable.? Hang on. Little Luke is now head of the Jedi Council. The leader of the Dark Jedi, Shindor, has a plan to makes clones of Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker in order to fulfill the prophecy...that Vader and Luke rule the galaxy hand in hand as father and son....remember? This Shindor guy even wants to reattach Lukes real hand...which evidently was found and preserved by another Dark Jedi named Spiden. I guess they didn’t have an eBay back then, or it would have fetched a pretty penny for Spiden!

I won’t go on any further...but you get the idea. Actually, as I read on...it’s an interesting story line. A story line no more bizarre than the previous six. My own personal concern? They will be made for television as Lucas has apparently retired from big screen stuff. It’s just getting too expensive (over $200 million to produce the last one), and television is considerably cheaper.

As a low-grade Star Wars fan, I will be interested to see what they come up with. I must be careful describing myself as a SW Fan...as real, fervent SW Fans can get quite testy if you don’t get the details exact. I’d hate for some geek dressed in a Darth Vader outfit show up at my door and try to choke me with his thoughts! I must use caution. And, as I recently found out through this SS site, all Jedis...both good and bad...can do that mind choking thing. That comes from years of these guys choking the chicken while watching Star Wars. They can even do that with their mind...how convenient.

Also in the works...Indiana Jones 4. This will supposedly be the “crown jewel” of all the Indy moves. Lucas will produce, Spielberg will direct. Harrison Ford will get a reported $50 million to don that old fedora again. It is planned for production this year...to be released in 2008. I can’t wait for that one...really!

May the force be with us.

Some great inventions I am working on...

Here are a few great ideas, some of them inventions if you will, that I am working on. Each and every one of them would make me a fortune. Unfortunately, none of them are likely to come to fruition.

1. Kashi that tastes like a Bacon Double Cheeseburger and Fries...instead of sticks and twigs.

2. Special eyeglasses for single guys. When you view a potential female date candidate...they show you what they will look like in 30 years.

3. Special eyeglass for single women. When you view a potential male date candidate...they show you the exact date and time of day that he will reveal how much of an asshole he is.

4. A card that must be inserted into the ignition of all autos to start them. The card will contain information regarding possession of a drivers license, insurance, immigration papers, and...here’s the best part...an I.Q. detector.

5. The Diet Pill...no side effects, anyone can take it. Need I say more?

6. A weapons-grade laser to replace those intersection red light cameras. Maybe disintegration will deter these nasty drivers.

7. A true to life looking fake arm for one night stands...so when you sneak out in the morning, you don’t have to chew off your real arm. Inflatable and easily detachable. Fits in your wallet next to that old condom.

8. The buffet restaurant moving sidewalk. Allows the management of these trough bistros to move patrons past the all-you-can-eat steak and shrimp sections faster when necessary. The device will provide enough room for the 500 pounders and their electric cars.

9. A device that attaches to your phone, allowing you to send a sub-sonic brain memory erasing signal back to the caller, making them a drooling, mindless idiot. For use with stalkers, telephone marketers, bill collectors, and ex-wives only.

10. A Re-Intelligencer. Technically, it restores dead brain cells from the conversion of testosterone. Unfortunately, the side effects include reduced libido, reduced erections, accelerated hair loss, rashes, oily discharge, loss of teeth, and general malase.

If number 10 comes true, I wouldn’t notice any changes in my life.

The Golden Globes...no, not Virginia Madsen's!

I must tell you that I am not a big fan of awards shows. I can’t remember when the last time was that I watched one on television or even had an interest in who might win an award. I do recall from years ago waiting with great anticipation for the Oscars. Back in the days when Johnny Carson hosted the Academy Awards we tuned in to see the “show”, the pageantry, the Carson jokes, the Hollywood glitter. Even during the Billy Crystal host era, it was entertaining to watch.

The worst evolution of a well-known awards extravanganza? The Grammys! I haven’t watched this (now) music industry auto-erotic freak show since Loggins & Messina stopped getting nominated. Since Elton John may have been straight. Since there were still four Beatles walking the earth. Since the songs still had chords and were played on real instruments.

Now, the Grammys is a Star Wars Mos Eisley cantina bar display of unrecognizable music, untalented “artists”, and unhumble recipients who should (and may) be wearing GPS ankle bracelets. But the Grammys are for another blog. And don’t even get me started about the MTV Awards. What a bizarre statement that one makes concerning where the music industry is now!

We actually planned to sit down and watch the Golden Globe Awards last night...and we did! I had hoped to watch the show live at 5:00 PST through an east coast NBC feed, but...I ain’t got a satellite dish. We were stuck with trying to stay awake until 8:00 for the cable west coast tape delay version. I drank some coffee when the program started. That may be why I layed awake until 2:00 am.

The show itself is quite scaled-down and mundane compared to some of the other more glitzy awards fiascos. It is broadcast from the Beverly Hilton Hotel. The small, “star-studded, noteworthy guest list does not allow for 5000 of P-Diddy’s closest friends to have a seat. It is a relatively intimate affair...the principals sitting at dining tables and actually having dinner and drinks...limited to the people directly involved with the nominated shows. I don’t remember seeing any “live” perfomances by Brittany Spears, Kid Rock, or 50 Cent. There were no Busby Berkeley song and dance numbers. The Blue Angles didn’t do a flyby inside the building. The Golden Globes is simply an awards “banquet” if you will, put on by the Hollywood Foreign Press.

The Golden Globes is considered a possible look into the future. That future being the Oscars. But not always. The categories are different. The Globes lump together cable movies, theatrical releases, and television...but include separate categories for T.V. shows, ie, comedies, dramas, mini-series, etc.

Most of us commoners would agree that some of the nominated actors and shows are less-than-recognizable. Anyone see Notes on a Scandal or Sherrybaby? Anyone heard of those flicks? But, many of the iconic players were there, sitting near the front...Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty, Martin Scorsese. The latter winning Best Director for The Departed, (having won in 2002 for The Gangs of New York)...nominated many times, but never recognized by the Academy Awards. Many say this may indeed be a prelude to the Oscars choice.

Some Golden Globe highlights of note (in my humble opinion):

*Martin Scorsese winning Best Director for The Departed.
*Forrest Whittaker (that long time, quirky, brooding, supporting actor from such gems as Good Morning Vietnam, Species, Platoon, The Crying Game) finally winning a Best Actor nod for The Last King of Scotland (as Idi Amin).
*Sacha Baron Cohen winning Best Actor (comedy) for Borat. His acceptance speech was a riot and gets my vote for the Best Of in this viewing category.
*America Ferrera winning Best Actress (TV comedy or musical). Ugly Betty won for best show in that category.

Some Golden Globes lowlights:

*Warren Beatty’s acceptance speech for the C.B. DeMille Lifetime Achievement Award. Who knew that he had such a stuttering problem?
*Grey’s Anatomy winning for Best TV Drama. Like I said in a previous blog, “I just don’t get it!”
*The usual collection of overunning, babbling acceptance speeches. The worst coming from the least-recognizable people. At least if Virginia Madsen had won (and been nominated of course), we would have been treated to looking at her "golden globes" for a few minutes.
*The incessant network commercial load and NBC self-promos.
*Seeing how many of the “old dogs” of Hollywood, ie, Warren, Jack, and Clint, have become so follicularly challenged of late. Watching scenes from Shampoo during Beatty’s tribute (he had more hair than Eric Carmen back then) made his hair now look a little like, well...my hairline.

By the way, that last lowlight can also be classified as a highlight for me personally.

All in all, The Golden Globes were not all that painful to watch. That’s the best I can do, describe it with a double negative. It wasn’t what you would call entertaining either. But at least we weren’t subjected to any Hip Hop...or someone named Paris...or The Flying Karamozov Brothers...or an emcee with bad writers. It was just an awards banquet. And isn’t that what it should be?

Grey's Anatomy - I've tried, but I just don't get it.

A drama centered on the personal and professional lives of five surgical interns and their supervisors.

That’s how this T.V. show is described by its producers. Allow me to add my two-cents to the same line.

A drama centered on the professional lives of five surgical interns and their supervisors and how their personal lives totally detract from them being competent enough to provide any viable medical services to any patient at that hospital.

I realize any desire of mine to see the Hippocratic oath in practice means that I stick to watching Trauma:Life in the E.R. and not this actor-driven, self-indulgent, whiny, soap opera.

If any employee in any other “real life” profession allowed their personal problems to so intrude on their jobs like this, they would be fired immediately! For instance, I find it necessary to ask my wife (who has become somewhat addicted to Grey’s Anatomy) about every episode, “Now...who is screwing who? And, who is that?” Regarding the second question...considering two of the female leads could be twins and have (are) sleeping with the same guy or guys!

My daughter, Jenifer, kind of urged me to try watching Grey’s Anatomy months ago. But after asking her recently, “So...what made you become disinterested in this program and stop watching?”.
“Eh...it’s just too melodramatic. Drama queens (and kings)...small doses are alright...but it’s just gotten too out there”. Of course I paraphrased most of her comments, but hopefully you get the idea...and Jenifer will forgive my editorial embellishment.

Grey’s Anatomy has several decent actors and lots of pretty people. The scripts and story lines providing plenty of opportunity to emote, cry, whine, complain, and ply their thespian wares. But for gosh sakes...this hospital needs to be under review by some medical board or something. These people are supposed to be doctors...the ultimate professionals. Friggin’ M.D.’s! These interns are badly in need of a team of psychiatrists flown in directly from Vienna.

The bottom line is that Grey’s Anatomy is simply not believable. At some point, the viewer just loses interest due to the presence of, well...too much drama.

One story line, for example, that is particularly outrageous, concerns one of the surgeons losing partial use of his hand. All the while, his surgeon girlfriend finding it necessary to assist him with all his procedures so as to hide his true condition. How would that be possible for five seconds in a real hospital?

Well, I guess the millions of fans of Grey’s Anatomy would never sustain my objections about this program. But I just don’t get it. Sorry...I’ve tried.

Hunky guys, babelicious girl doctors...and cool music though. It’s got that going for it!

Who would want to be a member of this club?

Willie Nelson wrote the song, Patsy Cline sang it...but am I crazy?

There is an old saying concerning self-analysis. An updated version of it can be heard in the movie Proof. It goes something like this:

Anthony Hopkins: A very good sign that you're not crazy is your ability to ask yourself, "Am I Crazy?"
Gweneth Paltrow's response: Even if the answer is yes?

Another favorite: A neurotic thinks he is a dog. A psychotic knows he is a dog.

Woody Allen probably offered up some of the most enteraining takes on the subject of self-analysis, life, sex, and immortality:

Life is divided into two parts. The horrible and the miserable.

I once got an F on a metaphysics exam for looking into the boy's soul sitting next to me.

Is sex dirty? Only if it's done right.

Don't knock masturbation. It's sex with someone I love

Eternal nothingness is fine if you happen to be dressed for it.

I don't want to achieve immortality through my work... I want to achieve it through not dying.

Your life (according to Nietzke) is destined to recur over and over. I don't want that. I would have to see the Ice Capades again!

This last one is particularly relevant to me and my life. It seems that I continually daydream about the past...and the future...but mostly the past. I'm working on it! Here is my take on that classic Allen quote:

Your life is destined to recur over and over. I don't want that. (period)

Ansel Adams - one of my mentors - was criticized too!

Among other things, I am a photographer. I post some of my photos on several different websites...for exposure (pardon the photo pun), peer approval and, to some extent, criticism.

For the most part, I just read the comments...use some of the information to improve my skills...and shitcan the rest. Photography, like all forms of art, is very subjective. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, etc, etc. In this digital age, photography seems to have also evolved into more of a science. Photographs are less seldom viewed on these sites for their visual impact, but quite literally placed under a microscope in search of "noise", artifacts, blooming, halo effects, pixelization, and luminance. They are literally "torn apart" down to the last pixel.

My photo editing program of choice is Adobe's Photoshop, an industry standard now for many years. Photoshop is, quite literally, a digital darkroom whereby even a novice photographer can apply some tried and true enhancement techniques in their computer. Some of these age-old techniques include, but are not limited to, cropping, dodging, burning, and color correction. Even my photographic mentor, Ansel Adams, spent more time in his darkroom than he did actually taking the pictures. Most people are not aware of this. His limitations in the early part of the 20th century speaks volumes when you view his images. Hiking miles into the Yosemite wilderness areas with a huge 8x10 studio camera, cumbersome wooden tripod, and a handful of 8x10 exposure plates required the use of a pack mule! And even then, he could only return to his darkroom with a few negatvies waiting to be developed. Not the hundreds of digital images now possible with modern digital cameras and memory cards. Adams would spend hours upon hours just composing each shot of Half Dome, or El Capitan, or the Merced River. On top of all this, he had to drive to Yosemite from his home in San Francisco back when roads were more like the Conestoga Trail than our modern highways. He was one dedicated artist!

So, I guess when I receive a critical line of comment on my photos concerning the atomic makeup of each pixel from viewing the image through an electron microscope...I get a bit defensive. Ansel Adams was not truly recognized as the incredible photographer he became until late in his career. Afterall, taking rich, black and white photos of mountains, and forests, and rivers in the middle of a depression was not a formula for "success". Certainly not a formula for "commercial success". Who could afford to buy such art back then? And, yes, he had his critics as well. But he pushed on.

In today's digital world wide web age...everyone is a critic. So be it. But when I receive moronic, unrelated, thoughtless criticism from some drooling, unqualified, envious website surfer photographer wannabe...I must refer them to my favorite comeback for these occurances.

"Although I appreciate your opinion...I am amazed how you could actually type on a computer keyboard and hold a crackpipe with your feet at the same time...while wearing a straightjacket!"

Of course, I have never actually written this response in a forum or comment section. It's almost as much fun just thinking it.

Jack Diddley - Chapter One (continued)

The sharp crackle in my ears from my radio jarred me back to the present. "Jack! Jack!", Harley yelled in my headset, “Someone’s shooting at us!”

Before I could respond to Harley’s radio message, I heard a loud bang just behind my cockpit. And then another. I couldn’t tell what it was. Looking to my right toward Harley’s P-40, I could just make out his signaling for me to look below us. He was pointing downward frantically.

Just off my left wingtip, a dirt road stretched out into the green foothills. Partially hidden by a couple of oak trees, I could see the mobile gun emplacement. There were two trucks. One appeared to carry what looked like a 40mm anti-aircraft gun. The other, a quad-50 caliber. A second or two went by before the next A.A. burst exploded just above and to the right of us.

I keyed my radio microphone, “Harley...you hit?”
“No...not yet”, he replied, “How ‘bout you?”
“I think I took one in the fuselage, just behind the cockpit”
“I don’t see any smoke...I think you’re OK”, Harley reassured me. Then he said, “Let’s do it. Break right!”

Both of us simultaneously wrenched our control sticks to the right and forward. My P-40 responded without hesitation. My wingman and I were in a tight turning dive. I backed off on the throttle just a little so I could follow Harley down. I knew exactly what he had in mind.

“Follow me, kid”, Harley radioed, “Stay tight”.

I positioned my plane just behind and to the left of Harley’s. We were passing 2000 feet at 350 knots and still turning and diving in a 45 degree bank. Taking a quick look out the right side of my cockpit window, I could see we were lining up with the dirt road where we saw the anit-aircraft vehicles just seconds before. I took Harley’s lead and leveled my wings as we passed 500 feet. We continued to decrease altitude in a textbook strafing run configuration. I struggled to hold on to the control stick as we gained speed. The huge V12 engine and 8-foot prop was turning at the top of its RPM range. The plane was shaking and buffeting as I pulled down on the buckle of my safety harness, making it so tight my chest hurt.

At 150 feet, we started leveling off. The tops of the oak trees looked like they were going to hit my wingtips. The road was just below us now. I could see ahead through my circular gunsight the two vehicles up ahead. Two medium-size Japanese military vehicles, each equipped with anti-aircraft weapons...the weapons that had nearly nailed us just a half minute before. Both were now driving on the road away from us at a fast speed, kicking up clouds of dust in their attempt to escape somewhere safe. But there was no “somewhere safe” for them now.

Harley started firing first. Even at this speed, with all the noise from my aircraft, I could hear his 6 - 50 caliber wing-mounted machine guns begin to chatter, jets of yellow flame extending out from the muzzles. That’s when I squeezed tightly on the control stick trigger, bringing my guns to life. The P-40 shook even more violently as I watch the six lines of tracer bullets streaming out from the leading edge of my wings. The two trucks were in our sights, only a few hundred yards ahead. We were at 100 feet above the road.

The lines of 50 caliber bullets started exploding on the dirt road just behind the trucks at first. I pulled back a little on the control stick, raising the nose ever so slightly...and aligning the rear truck in the center of my gunsight. A volley of bullets tore into the truck with such force that I could see the cab blow off at impact. I could see small chunks of metal, canvas, and red flesh being thrown up into the air.

At the exactly the same moment, Harley’s target caught all six lines of his 50 caliber machine gun fire and exploded...igniting the fuel tank and some of the ammunition. Two of the soldiers on the back of the truck flew up into the air on fire, landing on the side of the road. A thick orange and black fireball boiled up at us as we screamed by at 375 miles per hour. Harley’s P-40 flew right through it.

I strained to pull back on the stick in order to gain some altitude. Our strafing run was at treetop level, and there was no room for error. There was no time to admire our work as we flew by. My wingman was doing the same. I glanced over at Harley’s P-40 as we climbed. He was looking at me as well. I could see the dark, charcoal-colored stains on his engine cowl from his flight through the truck explosion.

As we passed through 1500 feet I radioed Harley, “Any damage buddy? How’s it looking?”
“Whoa doggie! That was close”, he radioed back, “Let’s get outta here”.
“Roger. I hear ya’”, I replied, “10-4”.

I glanced back over my soldier as we continued to climb out. I could see a steady stream of black smoke coming from both of the trucks. The other one was on fire as well.

“That’s all she wrote for those guys”, Harley said, “We’ll radio in that position when we get back to cruising altitude. Maybe some ground guys will know where those trucks were based”.

The western China sky was darkening. The sun was going to be down in an hour or so. We needed to get back. The night patrol squadron will need to be aware of the activity in this area. All I could think about was getting safely back on the ground, having a beer ot two, and painting a little truck symbol on the side of my P-40, just below the cockpit. My first “kill” in the Flying Tigers.

As my wingman and I cruised back to our little airfield, I started thinking again about our night in Singapore just before we checked in with the squadron...at Susie Q’s. My jaw still ached a little. And the stitched up scar on the back of head will always be there to remind me. I knew that Harley and I would talk about it over those beers when we got “home”. I knew he wouldn’t let me forget how, according to him, he saved my life. And how I still owed him $20...for that little Asian beauty named Kat! Her picture taped to the instrument panel on my P-40.

(To be continued...)

Good Morning New Dehli!

The scene: Downtown new Dehli, India...10:03 pm. A small office space in an old, six-story office building on the outskirts of town. Outside the open windows, street sounds filter up and into the room. Taxi cabs racing up and down the street, horns honking constantly. Street vendor carts cooking various Indian dishes in large open pots, the sweet, pungent smell of curry wafting upwards in billowing vapor streams. An occassional ox cart ambles by, its handler sitting just behind the animal on the rickety wooden vehicle, tapping the lumbering bovine with long, thin whips. Bicycling New Dehli-ites dart in and out of the taxis, cars, and smoking trucks in practiced techniques, barely avoiding certain death with every turn of the pedals.

In the cramped office just above, the workers go about their repetitious jobs with robot-like nonexhuberance. Well-used, dingy desks line the sides of the room. On the desks sit a computer screen, desktop processor and a telephone, each manned by a citizen of New Dehli.

There is not a discernable, singular conversation going on, as all of the workers are speaking to someone on the phone in English. Speaking to someone miles and miles from New Dehli.

On one of these computers screen, a small green phone icon begins to flash next to one of the names on the database displayed. The worker at this screen quickly scrolls the pointer up this name and clicks on it. The name: Skip Hansen, HFC Account, California, USA. Through her telephone headpiece, she can hear this...

Me: "Hello! (pause) Hello! (pause) Hello!"
New Dehli phone lady: "Hello...is this Mr. Hassen?", in her best pedgeon English similar to Baboo from Seinfeld episodes.
Me: "Excuse me?", in my usual indignant tone when aswering these calls.
New Dehli phone lady: "Is this Mr. Hassen? Mr. Skip Hassen?"
Me: "No...it is not", I repled shaking my head from side to side and rolling my eyes.
New Dehli lady: "I am telling you I am sorry. Is this Mr. Skip Hansen?"
Me: "Maybe it is...maybe it isn't".
New Dehli lady: "Well, I am calling regarding...."
Me: "Excuse me...but do you know what time it is?"
New Dehli lady: "Well, Mr Hassen...it seems that your HFC account is..."
Me: "Excuse me. But it is 8:03 am here...on a Saturday. Is that an appropriate time to call?"
New Dehli lady: "Well, Mr. Hassen...a problem we have had processing your online payment..."
Me: "Is 8:03 am on a Saturday an appropriate time to call?"
New Dehli lady: "Well, Mr. Hassen...I am asking you that it is possible to make a payment right here on the phone..."

At this point, I railed on her a few more times for calling me at this time of the day, told her I would resend the payment, and to send me a letter next time. The conversation went on for a short time longer with similar exchanges.

Me: "I will resend the payment today. Goodbye!", hanging up the phone.

I went to the computer and fixed the payment problem. I'm sure the New Dehli lady said something in Hindu to her co-workers like, "What an asshole!". Then scrolled up her computer screen to another flashing green phone icon...the icon indicating that someone was actually answering one of her computer-generated calls to that far off land called the U.S.A.

I made some pancakes for Loretta and I. And life went on this early Saturday morning in Modesto...and late Saturday night in New Dehli.

The Black Dahlia...film noir?

We watched The Black Dahlia on DVD last night, having missed it when it was in theatres.

The Black Dahlia is set in 1947 Los Angeles. The main story centers around two cops, Bucky Bleichert (Josh Hartnett) and his partner, Lee Blanchard (Aaron Eckhart). They are investigating the death of Elizabeth Short, a young woman found brutally murdered, beaten to death then dismembered. Bucky soon realizes that his girlfriend had ties to the deceased, and soon after that, he begins uncovering corruption and conspiracy within the police department. The Black Dahlia was inspired by the most notorious unsolved murder in California history.

Does the above script summary sound familiar? It should. Similar plot lines centering around L.A. police department corruption in the 1940’s have been written into novels then made into movies, mostly in the 40’s and 50’s...but some recently. The style of this film might be called film noir. But as soon when you refer to a movie as being of this genre, you will get an argument from any student of the art form called cinema. No one can agree if this a genre or just a style of cinematography.

Film noir is a cinematic term used primarily to describe stylish Hollywood crime dramas, particularly those focused on sex and corruption. The literal translation from French is "black film". Hollywood's classic film noir period is generally regarded as stretching from the early 1940s to the late 1950s. Film noir of this era is associated with a low-key black-and-white visual style, its roots in German Expressionist cinematography.

Back to The Black Dahlia. Brian De Palma directed it. His name alone should tell you that, at the very least, it is going to be stylish, dark, even creepy. The Untouchables, Scarface, Dressed to Kill, Body Double...Carrie!

For us fans of film making, another credit to make note of is the cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond. The Two Jakes, Bonfire of the Vanities, The Deer Hunter, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Scarecrow...and Deliverance!

With De Palma and Zsigmond at the helm, you owe it to yourself to see The Black Dahlia...despite the less than stellar box office performance and reviews from when it came out last year. It is a good flick to rent or buy, sit down with a bag of microwave popcorn, unplug the phone, and enjoy an interesting murder mystery with a good ensemble of top actors. Heck, Hillary Swank is in The Black Dahlia in a role quite different from anything she has done before. Lest I forget Scarlett Johansson, Josh Hartnett, and Mia Kirschner (show in flashbacks as the ill-fated starlet wannabe). As I've said many times previously, I would watch Scarlett Johansson in a Kitchenaide instructional video.

The original musical soundtrack by Mark Isham, including his haunting trumpet solos, is just right. Although, you will swear at times they simply duplicated the music from L.A. Confidential, Mulholland Falls, and Chinatown.

One small point of criticism. The obligatory period piece cigarette smoking in every scene...and I mean every scene...appears a bit contrived at times... as most of the actors, save for Aaron Eckhart, seem a little clumsy executing this nasty habit on camera. Their constant unfamiliar fumbling with paper matchbooks and Zippo lighters is a bit distracting.

As far as The Black Dahlia being film noir. Maybe so. The colors are muted, not black and white but more sepia toned. And, there are a lot of backlit smoke and vapor-filled silhouette scenes. Very stylish.

If you are curious as to what may be (arguably) the most well-known movie of so-called film noir...try The Maltese Falcon! They just don’t make ‘em any better than that. And Mr. Bogart new how to comfortably handle a lit cigarette with panache.

Jack Diddley - Chapter One

Chapter One - General Chenault's gang.

The fuselage of the Curtiss-Wright P-40 Warhawk fighter shook as the young Flying Tiger pilot shoved the throttle forward. The V-12 Allison engine roared and belched out plumes of white smoke from its twelve side mounted exhaust ports. The six ton olive drab colored aircraft lurched into motion down the grassy field in near Rangoon, Burma. The pilot’s body was pressed back against his seat as the warplane headed down the makeshift runway...quickly building speed. At 120 knots it gently lifted itself off the ground as the pilot applied only a slight bit of pressure on the stick. The P-40 shook slightly as its sharply pointed propellar hub rose, aiming the plane toward the partly cloudy, blue, morning sky. The landing gear lever was acutated, the wheels slowly folded up into the wings. The takeoff and landing flaps were retracted and the warbird was off on its mission. The pilot’s name was Jack Diddley.

I could see the Burmese coolees just below, standing near the end of the runway, waving me on my way. I turned my attention back to the instrument panel. Altimeter: 150 feet and climbing. Tachometer: 12,000 RPM’s. Engine Manifold pressure: 200 PSI. Compass: heading due West. I edged the control stick ever so slightly to the left, causing the P-40 to bank about 10 degrees. Then, lightly tapping the right rudder pedal and pulling back on the control stick...I coaxed my climbing P-40 toward a northerly heading. I could just see the grass and tree-covered foothills of Quinang Province lining the horizon through the spinning prop. The plane was passing 3000 feet, on its way to a cruising altitude today of 6000 feet. I brought the plane’s wings back level once again, bringing into view out the right side of the cockpit window the other P-40, just off my right wingtip...my new wingman: Harley Morgan. I keyed the radio switch on the control stick.
“Hey buddy...where you been?”, I asked jokingly.
After a moment of silence, the crackly reply came back, “What d’ya mean, Diddley. Don’t wait for me. That run down crate of yours barely made it off the runway!”
“Ok Harley, so it’s gonna be one of those days, huh?”
“Just another day in paradise chief. I’m free and easy and lovin’ life. 1942 is going to be a great year!”, Harley quipped. A little saying that Harley used on every flight when he was truly nervous.

It was late December, 1941.

I thought about all the conversations I had like this with Harley Morgan, in the air and on the ground. Morgan was a jokester, always poking fun at me, giving me a “bad time”. Teasing me about being a “hick sodbuster from South Dakota”. But it was always in fun, never serious. A native New Yorker and ex-airline jockey now plying his passion for flying in China. He was fun to have around. And, Morgan was comforting to have as a wingman in General Chennault’s little band of volunteer fighter pilots.

I recall one mission in particular when Harley Morgan saved my life. It wasn’t on a flying mission, it was in a bar in Singapore just before we arrived at the airbase in Burma. It was in a rustic little dive called Susie Q’s just a block from the waterfront and a short, take-your-life-in-your-hands taxi ride from the airstrip. The airstrip where me and Harley were to catch a transport flight to China...and the Chenault Flying Tiger outfit. We had a one-night layover in Singapore. Why not head to town?

It was always filled with merchant marine sailors, civilian cargo pilots, criminals, opium dealers, and hookers of every shape and size. In one corner of the smokey, smelly little bar stood an old, beat up juke box that had five records in all...78 rpm bakelite discs. It seemed to be playing the same song over and over, “My Darling Clementine” by Tex Ritter. There were no windows. The bar top ran down one side of the dingy little room, manned by a rather large, balding, round-faced, non-Asian fellow named Georgy Boy. He was big, and looked like he ate furniture for breakfast. He always wore a stained white undershirt, waist apron, and Hawaiian print shorts. There was always at big cigar stump stuck in the corner of his mouth. I never saw any smoke come from it...though you could smell it when you walked into the place. And how he came to get a name like that, I never found out. From the looks of him, I hesitated to ask. He was also the owner. Evidently, Georgy Boy acquired this Singapore night spot in a poker game many years ago. The story goes that the former owner was never heard from again after that particular poker game. The name Susie Q's was retained for marketing purposes...this joint was one of the most notorious in Singapore for being the place with "Everything for the traveler", so it said on the sign behind the bar. If you couldn't find it at Susie Q's, it didn't exist in Singapore.

Susie Q’s was off limits to the regular Navy guys that docked in Singapore. This place was just too “exotic” for the local magistrate and local fleet commander to allow that kind of fraternization. This cut down on the fights between the merchant marine sailors and the Navy sailors. And, it cut down on the Sick Bay calls for penicillin.

The place smelled of beer, cheap perfume, and urine...with a smidgeon of that burning shit and garbage odor so prevalent in this part of the orient. The sewers here were simply open ditches than ran right through town, next to the sidewalks. A pile of garbage was always smoldering somewhere nearby. The burning garbage smell was a welcome change from the rotting garbage smell that competed for “air superiority” around these parts. We were quite happy when they burned it.

Harley and I had been at Susie Q’s about 20 minutes, drinking beer. We were sitting at a small, round wooden table near the front door. Harley always preferred that location in these kinds of places, just in case.
I asked him, “...just in case of what?” “Boy”, he proceeded to lecture me, “I see I am going to have to teach you everything!"
“Well”, I said, “teach me”. “Just keep sitting there Diddley”, he said shaking his head, “...just keep sitting there”.

A few minutes later, a little Asian man came over to our table, the same one who brought us our beers. He was smiling and looking straight at me, “You know...she likee you”, he said in his best pigeon English. “She want sit by you”.
A few seconds went by with me just staring back at the little Asian man before I said, “Who likee me?”

The guy was bending over slightly at the waist, leaning toward me. He moved a little closer and spoke in my ear, “That one...over there”, motioning toward the bar a few feet away. I leaned to the side a bit to see around this guy standing in front me. And there, leaning against the bar by herself, was the most beautiful Asian girl I had ever seen. She was leaning back against the grungy bar on her elbows, her legs kind of crossed at the knees. She had long, straight black hair to the middle of her back, and bangs cut across her forehead. She was wearing a long, silk red dress that was cut up the side a little, just enough to reveal one shapely leg exposed. And, she was staring straight at me. I couldn't tell how old she was, but not much more than 18 or so.
“Her?", I asked the guy while leaning back in my chair and pointing toward the bar.
“Yes boss”, he answered quickly, still smiling that smirky little smile, “Her name Miss Kat. She likee you. She want talk you”. The little guy was now standing up straight and motioning toward the girl at the bar. “She velly, velly nice”, he said continuing the pitch.

Harley just sat there, saying nothing. He had that same smirky smile on his face, head cocked to one side, looking at me. So now, Harley, the little Asian guy, and the most beautiful Asian girl I’ve ever seen are all staring at me. At this point, the rest of the bar patrons were still going about their own business, not noticing any of this...yet.

I’ll admit, I was curious...and intrigued by this vision of Oriental loveliness. Besides, I had just arrived in the Orient. Who am I to refuse such local hospitality?

“C’mon sodbuster", Harley chimed in finally, “What d’ya got to lose? Give her a break”.
“OK...OK”, I said back to Harley, “But just one drink. Then we gotta get back to the airfield”.

Before I could get the last words out of my mouth, the little man left the table and returned hand in hand with the beautiful Asian girl. She was standing right next me, staring down right into my eyes. The little man pulled up another chair for her, and she slowly sat down...her eyes still looking into mine. She had a slight smile on her bright, red lips as she lowered her gaze, closed her deep, dark eyes, and said in a quiet, little voice, “My name is Kat”. With her head still angled down, she opened her eyes and looked up at me, still smiling slightly. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were piercing. I couldn’t look away.

Harley shook his head from side to side and chuckled. Cleared his throat and took a big swig of his Singapore beer, set the bottle down and pushed himself away from the table. Placing his hand on his knees, he stood up and said, “I’m gonna get some air. I’ll be right back”. He patted me on the back of my leather flight jacket twice, turned, a walked out the nearby front door. Pulling a silver Zippo lighter from his jacket, he lit an unfiltered Camel cigarette on the way. I watched him walk out the door for a moment. A big swirl of cigarette smoke wafted back into the bar, backlit from the bare bulb just outside the doorway. I turned my head back towards Kat. She was still looking at me. It was just after midnight.

(To be continued...)