September 11th, 2008

Good Omens

Now THIS is Surviving


Dreamt last night of being part of the Survivor crew, preparing -- or, I guess, preparing to prepare -- some exotic locale for a new season. But no Survivor locates are as close to a nice hotel as my imagined Survivor locale was. Convenient. But once I was outside the hotel, and taking care of setting something up in near-pitch darkness (guess the crewmembers were involved in the challenges, too), it felt distant.

Even as someone who's only watched one whole season of Survivor (Australia), I still find the show compelling and dip into it every once in a while. I also think a really interesting book could be written about the behind-the-scenes work of producing Survivor. (Stephen King had a character in his unfinished novel The Plant think of a what-if: What if a Survivor-type show was being produced on an island that got hit by a massive, unexpected storm, killing half of the contestants and crew and cutting off the survivors from the rest of the world? THAT could be a really interesting book, too, in its own right.)

Disclaimer: I'm acquainted with some people who work for the CBS corporate comglomerate. They DO NOT give me a kickback any time I mention Survivor, or CBS Sports, or Abby Sciuto from NCIS. I'm not expecting kickbacks, either. There. That should cover it.
Whale fluke

A Post-9/11 Wedding

I attended a wedding on Saturday, Sept. 15th, 2001.

The younger sister of Antonio, my then-housemate, married her fiancé in a good-sized ceremony on the lower southern slopes of Mt. Hood. I drove Antonio there that morning (another sunny morning; we'd had a week of sunshine in Portland, kind of like this week). Much of Hwy. 26 eastbound gives you a view of the mountain. It was grayer than normal; there had been a lot of snowmelt, more than usual, and Mt. Hood looked almost ugly. Not as striking as normal. Still plenty striking, though; Mt. Hood's an, I think, arresting mountain. I've sometimes said that Portland makes up for its lack of quantity of nearby mountains with the quality of nearby mountains.

Some in the wedding party had been in the air, crossing the country, when the planes hit. A few of them were among the last people to get to their destinations that Tuesday, before planes started landing wherever they could land. Two members of the party had not yet launched from Colorado when the air fleet was grounded; they got to their car, loaded it and drove non-stop, switching off driving duties until they'd reached Mt. Hood.

It had been, of course, a dramatic week for everyone (here's one of my rambling accounts of part of it). I remember a couple of days earlier, looking at the sky above King City where my dad's parents lived at the time, and thinking the skies haven't been this empty since, I dunno, the Forties. Maybe the Thirties. The enormity of the attack hit me another way when I'd realized that. The couple had considered postponing the wedding, but had decided to go through with it. It meant that some people couldn't make it -- no planes, no back-up plan for getting there -- but the turnout was still strong.

People needed a positive event like this.

The wedding party filled up a rented house above Government Camp, Oregon. We ate from a large mobile barbecue, large enough to be pulled like a trailer. We had cloudcover by the time of the ceremony, but no rain. I took pictures, as my wedding gift. The other highlights of a wedding happened: dancing, partying, visiting, laughing.

"You could almost become a wedding junkie," I said that night.

Antonio and I left early Sunday morning, earlier than anyone else. We both had work, him earlier than me at the Cash 'n' Carry in Gresham. I had my call center work in downtown Portland. I drove us back, the canny choice of music being the score to The Last of the Mohicans: driving enough to keep me awake, soothing enough to let Antonio rest after a late night. McDonald's sold us breakfast; I dropped him off at his job; I went home and prepared for my job.

And back where we'd been, the celebrating continued.

R.I.P., Gregory Mcdonald

"CIA, Mr. Fletcher." "Um, would you mind spelling that, please?"

Gregory Mcdonald has died.

I first wrote "passed away," but decided that wasn't terse enough. (Oh, dear, how terse will I have to be when James Ellroy dies? Maybe it'd be this: "Ellroy? Fuckin' dead.")
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Whale fluke

Meme #42

When you see this (hi, puppetmaker40), post a Douglas Adams quote in your journal:
Anything that happens, happens.

Anything that, in happening, causes something else to happen, causes something else to happen.

Anything that, in happening, causes itself to happen again, happens again.

It doesn't necessarily do it in chronological order, though.
-- the opening of Mostly Harmless (1992)
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Blow My Mind

A highly unscientific sample

rafaela and I were unable to come up with an answer to this, so:

Does the fandom for the film Boondock Saints skew more female than shoot-em-ups normally do? All I know is the highly unscientific sample of the biggest Boondock Saints fans I know being Ms. rafaela, Ms. shadesong, and my former girlfriend Alicia, who normally hates shoot-em-ups. (She despises Tarantino's stuff, for instance, and the first films we saw in the theater as a couple were Grumpier Old Men and Muppet Treasure Island.)

And I know the film's very popular among the straight women for the deleted "Don't even fucking start. I've had ice on mine, all right? Fuck" scene.