Rolling The Coins of One's Life, Or Frugality In The Modern Era

Tonight, after running a space heater for a bit, which naturally caused my CD player to start detecting CDs successfully again, I sipped some wine and gathered up three rolls worth of dimes and one roll of nickels, preparatory to depositing them to my account tomorrow. All in all, it took maybe forty minutes, maybe an hour, because I was a bit tipsy. I spent several minutes with my fingers trapped inside the coin rollers, as if they were Chinese finger cuffs. Totally the wine's fault, that: it's not that I'm naturally uncoordinated or anything.

Really.

Even so, you would have to say that accumulating $17 while drinking wine is a pretty good hourly wage.

We'll ignore the fact that this change was mine to begin with, so I wasn't technically earning new money.

We'll also ignore the fact that earlier tonight, in the space of about ten minutes, I spent ten dollars on wine, cookies, and a lottery ticket, and also made an inquiry into a special order at a wine and liquor store that could cost $38 plus taxes.

Those details do not further the story, so shall be omitted.

How many people actually do anything with spare change? Oh, there are the change counters at some banks and at some stores. But how many people just let their change sit there doing nothing? No wonder pennies have been rumored to be on their way out for years. If currency isn't being spent, does it have any value?

I've mentioned before the interesting manifestations I have witnessed of humanity's version of frugality: selling junk food to strangers on a bus, swiping used food off a restaurant's deserted table, etc. What are some of the new details you pay attention to in calculating a budget these days? I've cancelled a subscription to a magazine I never finish reading anyway; I've preemptively cancelled my Amazon Prime membership so it won't renew this fall--shop locally, spend less, I say--Amazon makes it too easy to spend.

I've even gone through my bookshelves to see if there are books that, if I'm honest with myself, I won't ever read again, and that I might be able to trade in to a used book store for credit for other used books (I've found three so far; if you knew my pack rat tendencies when it comes to books, you would be shocked, believe me).

On the flip side, I also spent $18 on the new Green Day CD at a local record store, when I could have bought it for $10 through Amazon, so how frugal am I being? Do I get frugal spirit points for shopping locally? Or at least good karma?

But back to my original point, or my question to my readers, rather: are there any interesting, subtle ways that you have found to be more efficient in your spending these days?

Baseball '09: Volume IV: Memorial Day Commemorative Edition

The first ball game I ever attended with my Dad--and our landlord from Santa Rosa, Andy Hall--was at Candlestick Park, that old wind-blown outpost down by the water, the Giants versus Dale Murphy's Atlanta Braves. Bob Brenly made three errors that dusty summer day, but also hit a game winning home run.

On Memorial Day, 2009, fittingly, I went to the new wind-blown outpost down by the water on the other side of the city, again to watch the Giants play the Braves, who now belong to Chipper Jones, although he did not start today due to injury.

Marina and I held club level tickets, compliments of work. These were awesome seats that gave us the right mix of sun and shade for the course of the game. Couldn't quite get the same view of the sailboats on the bay, but I wasn't complaining. I had a plastic bottle of Anchor Steam and a tray of garlic fries, and a sunny, well-manicured baseball field before me. Apparently having a job can be a good thing.

Speaking of having a job, Jonathan Sanchez took the hill for the Giants, one of a cadre of young pitchers who have been hovering on the edge of breaking out for the last couple of years, and who became firmly slotted into the rotation this year with the continuing injury-quagmire that is the career of Noah Lowry. Now, with the Giants in transition between the bat of Barry Bonds and the bats of some of the big prospects in the minor leagues, and with other young arms set to follow Tim Lincecum, Sanchez has been the subject of trade rumors, especially this past week in the wake of more mediocre offensive outings.

If he is bothered by those trade rumors, you couldn't tell from the first inning, where he quickly racked up three K's along the right field wall (three strikeouts, that is).

The opening innings were quick and painless affairs, with a couple of quirky moments. Top of the second, Brian McCann's bat went flying out of his hands after he made contact with the ball, and it whirled out past the pitcher's mound, which has to have distracted the defense. By the time Emmanuel Burriss came up with the ball, it was too late to retire McCann. And in the bottom of the second, Travis Ishikawa, another Giant who has been playing all too gently and who has also been hearing rumors, these of the great-hitting options behind him in the minors, particularly Jesus Guzman, blooped a high pop up that looked to be an easy out until the Braves pitcher and third baseman collided and the ball fell harmlessly to earth with a dull thud for a single.

In the bottom of the 4th, Randy Winn singled with one out, stole second base, and advanced to third on a wild pitch. It looked like we were in business, with the heart of our lineup coming up. But Bengie Molina, the cleanup hitter, who only needed a long fly ball or perhaps a slow-moving ground ball to drive in the run, popped out weakly, and Fred Lewis struck out, which was the same sort of anticlimax that has tormented me all year.

But this time, the Giants did something about it. In the bottom of the 5th, Ishikawa, perhaps feeling inspired by the looming shadow of Jesus (Guzman), singled to lead off the inning, stole second base on Juan Uribe's strike out, and then took third when Vazquez threw another wild pitch. Emmanuel Burriss singled to center field, scoring Ishikawa, and then when Sanchez put down a bunt, Vazquez gave us another gift by trying futilely to throw out the speedy Burriss at second rather than going for the sure out at first base. Rowand popped out, which would have been the third out if Sanchez had been sacrificed, but as it was, it set the table for Edgar Renteria to double in both Burriss and Sanchez for a 3-0 lead.

Of course, they wouldn't be my Giants if they didn't let their momentum get undercut a little bit right away. Top of the 6th, and maybe Sanchez was tired from running the bases, but all of a sudden he could not get an out. Sanchez loaded the bases and gave up a run before Justin Miller entered the game. He gave up one more run before extinguishing the rally. 3-2 Giants. I was worried, but I comforted myself with thinking that even if Atlanta rallied to win, at least our mascot isn't racist.

But suddenly, the baserunning errors that were driving me crazy in April seemed to have vanished. Good aggressive baserunning by Ishikawa and Fred Lewis scored two more runs in the bottom of the 6th, and the lead was restored.

In the bottom of the 8th, after Randy Winn doubled and Molina fouled out, the Braves elected to walk Fred Lewis intentionally in order to pitch to Ishikawa, who was three for three at that point. Conventional wisdom, of course, indicates that this set up a force out at third; but you can't help but ignore the implication that the Braves allowed a base runner for free for the chance to pitch to Ishikawa.

Travis responded by hammering a majestic drive, long and deep, just right of dead center field and into the stands, slamming the door shut on Atlanta. Storybook, I tell you. That's why I love baseball.

8-2, Giants. A very comfortable, low-stress victory with lots of great hitting for the Giants. They executed every aspect well: hitting, pitching, fielding, base-running. This is why baseball is marvelous; your team might not make the playoffs, but they will always be capable of putting together a brilliant game to restore your faith in the existence of good in this world.

At least until the next day, when the State Supreme Court upheld Prop 8, but that's not the subject of this blog.

The Basics

I'm a fan of Green Day.

A simple statement, but true.

Last Saturday night after Marina's sister's wedding, we were lounging in our hotel room in downtown Sacramento when Saturday Night Live came on, with Green Day the musical guest. The two songs they played, "Know Your Enemy" and "21 Guns" got me more excited for an album release than I have been since Counting Crows' last album.

I don't generally get worked up about an album. I like music, but it's been hard to define what I'm passionate about. I can't really talk at length about the profound intricacies of what makes me prefer one band to another. I quite often just don't care enough to dissect it.

But those songs, and then some of the publicity in the last week, made the purchase an easy decision. I mean, they've called George W. Bush an idiot, and they refused to buckle and offer Wal-Mart an edited version of 21st Century Breakdown. If there were ever corporations whom I would like to tell to go to hell, it would be George W. Bush and Wal-Mart. Yeah, I called Bush a corporation. I'm okay with that.

I walked down Valencia Street to Aquarius Records, a small indie shop, bought the album, and I've been listening to it all afternoon, and it has been an awesome afternoon indeed.

I think it is one of the hardest questions to answer, really: "Who am I?" Not to sound like a cliched philosopher, but how many of us are lost for so many years, not knowing really why we do the things we do, or not knowing what we should do. For instance, if someone acts thoughtfully, I think it can be hard to find the boundary where his motivation crosses from doing it so people will like him to doing it because he wants to, or because he is genuinely thoughtful.

There have been times in my life, particularly with online 'flirtations', where I'm not sure that I've always been true to myself, where in looking back at what I wrote I have to ask myself what I was thinking; it doesn't reflect who I am, or at least not how I carry myself in real life, and when those 'flirtations' went off-line, things went awry. I was fortunate to keep two good friendships out of the three such flirtations, but the third, we don't talk any more, and I have a book she lent me, and I feel guilty about that.

I think part of the problem was that I wasn't really comfortable with who I am and what I want. But I could be wrong. Maybe I was just making mistakes.

But things are changing. I met Marina, and she is wonderful, and I can be myself around her, and I know this much: I like Green Day, and Counting Crows, and Bob Dylan, and the Beatles. People I care for a great deal have given me a hard time for liking Green Day, saying they have become commercialized. But I can't help it. I think they're fun, and I'm finding it easier to accept that I like things for as simple a reason as that.

It's easier to be confident about yourself when you know what you are actually all about.

Slices of San Francisco, From Recession to Absolutely Fabulous

I.

A spectacled young black man in a bulky jacket and neatly trimmed beard sits down next to me on the 49 Line.

"3 bucks for the whole bag," he announces.

"What?"

He lifts a grocery bag from the floor, sets it down between us.

"All this," opening the bag to reveal a cornucopia of potato chips and Hostess pies,"for only three dollars."

"Oh, no thanks. Don't need it."

"You sure? Okay." He turns away, moves the bag into the aisle, turns to the old bearded ex-hippie with the beret and the long beard.

"What have you got in there? Magic?" The hippie laughs, savoring the sound of the crinkle of the cellophane bags.

They fall to talking about growing up in the city, and the young black man, Nate, tells the old bushy-bearded bohemian about his temporary job, cleaning buses.

"You mean cleaning off this poetry?" he gestures at the scrawling tags of graffiti on the floor and the back of the seat

"Yup, and scrubbing the metal, peeling off the address labels."

A block on, Nate disembarks after asking for the nearest liquor store.

"What a beautiful child," the old man muses.

II.

Say what you will about recessions and economic woes in general: they do bring out the resourcefulness of the individual.

In addition to the story of Nate, the Public Transit Peddler of Junk Food--have to wonder where he got that and why he was selling it for $3--I have within the last five hours witnessed the following:

1) on the platform of the Civic Center Bart Station, a homeless man wearing a rust-colored jacket almost bigger than his body trying to sell a sealed FedEx package that he acquired somehow, somewhere, presumably illegally, to other passengers;

2) a wiry-haired gentleman in worn-out coat like a khaki army blanket and well-cared-for glasses asking for help for food in light of the economy and the historical re-occurrence of the rich exploiting the poor;

3) a young lady in newsie hat, denim jeans and jacket and scarf swiping a hunk of food off an abandoned plate on an outdoor table at Boogaloo's on Valencia.

I also heard a pedestrian telling his companions how he had just sold a van to a 50 year old man who was planning on overhauling it as a place to sleep. Shelter is shelter, and it is a pretty simple concept at its heart.

III.

In further news, I saw an office on Valencia that seems to be offering Confidential Marriages. I'm not sure what this would entail, but I like the connotations, which seem to harken to the jazz/noir age.

I also saw a poster advertising the California Lottery on a Muni shelter, written in Spanish, but I think it was saying, "If $27 million is muchmuchmuchmuchmuch money, is $12 million muchmuchmuch money? It's still plenty." The implication being, why wait for the jackpot to grow larger? Play the lottery now!

IV.

Riding the 24 Line last night, I saw a posse of five young people, three boys and two girls, all primped to look older than they were, disembarking from the bus, with talks of parties in high-pitched voices of excitement. The girls were also talking excitedly.

After the doors slid shut with a hiss, a cadre of four hip older kids, three latinos and one blonde woman, discussed the probability of the previous group being 18 or older. "And the girls probably think those guys are straight," they added.

A few minutes later, they started talking about which Absolutely Fabulous characters they would be. The guy in the baseball hat leaning against the blonde's chest said, "I would be Patsy, I think. No, wait, I'd be Edina."

Baseball '09, Volume III: Radio Edition

Fresh off a triumph in LA, taking two of three games from the Dodgers and gaining the motivational spark of Dodgers third baseman Casey Blake mocking Brian Wilson's end-of-game crossed-arms sky point, and after coming home to the Bay and knocking in a prodigious number of runs last night against the Washington Nationals, the Giants take the field again tonight at 7:15, just in time for the radio to click on in your apartment, the steady conversational tones of the announcers filling the air against the backdrop of the soft roll of the stadium noises, the rise and fall of the crowd's vocalizations.

Matt Cain takes the mound for the Giants, and continuing a trend started this year, the Giants hitters are able to knock in runs for him, quickly building a 2-0 and then 5-1 lead.

Baseball on the radio lets you dip your attention in and out, giving you short bursts of narrative, broken into easily navigable stretches by commercial breaks, and the nature of the game lets you visualize everything while remaining at home. The perfect framework for being productive.

At the first ad break, you eat your sandwich, pour a small glass of dinner wine, catch up on news headlines.

The game progresses. The Giants seem to be playing steadily, racking up hits and runs and one by one depleting the Nationals' allotted 27 outs. You will notice, later, after the game, that what the writers at CNNSI describe as a baserunning blunder by Randy Winn in the first, getting tagged out trying to stretch a double into a triple, is praised by the Giants broadcasters as a good job not being tagged out until after Bengie Molina scored the Giants' second run. And of course, the Giants broadcasters don't comment on Pablo Sandoval's spontaneous, ill-fated battle with gravity in the base path between second and third except to hope for his good health after his face plant in the dirt.

Between innings, you retrieve your laundry from the dryer, and pitch by pitch, batter by batter, in soft lamp light you fold and put away your socks and shirts.

Then Matt Cain abruptly forgets how to pitch in the 7th inning, and two base runners and a Ryan Zimmerman home run make it a 5-4 game.

A break in play and you shake out your rug out the back door, dust to dust as you free dust particles to rejoin their brethren (or sistren?). You stack coins to be rolled and deposited; you bag up newspapers and magazines to be recycled.

Damn. The Nationals clobber Bob Howry, and jump to a 7-5 lead in the top of the 8th, and your comfortable evening descends into a contemplation of how to be mature enough to deal with your co-worker from the East Coast tomorrow who happens to be a Nationals fan. Do you delegate all mailed-in paperwork to him for processing and sabotage his chair, or do you get spiteful and petty?

You sweep the floor, deposit the dust in the garbage bag from the kitchen, consolidate the garbage from the bathroom, recycle the wine bottle, throw out the cork.

Bengie Molina smashes a home run to lead off the bottom of the 8th, sparking a flicker of acceleration in your heart. The next three Giants go down in order, and you return to a resting state.

The bottom of the ninth, and a lunch of work place Corvus ossifragus is staring you in the face, and it has a nasty looking beak that will probably scratch your throat and choke you. The first two Giants are briefly mentioned, quickly leave the stage.

Then Emmanuel Burriss, the D.C. native, comes to bat and singles. A wild pick off throw moves him on to second base. Next up is Edgar Renteria, the much-maligned Columbian shortstop--maligned for the big contract he got in the wake of a down year in Detroit, but really, who or what didn't have a down year in Detroit, other than the Red Wings and people who didn't like their mayor. Renteria walks. Pablo Sandoval is up next. Sandoval is a second-year third-baseman who always swings at the first (and second and third . . .) pitch he sees. You have seen him reach up above his shoulders to swing at an offering, as if he were swinging an axe, bringing it down to cleave a log standing on end.

Sandoval takes four pitches in a row, and the announcers don't know what to make of it. It's as if a peanut butter sandwich were to suddenly recite the Gettysburg Address.

Then with the count 2-2, Sandoval bangs the ball deep to left field, over the fence and out of the game, a walk-off home run.

That's what I call a well-structured night.

Of Cigarette Smoke and Whiskey Glass Rings

We started watching Mad Men on DVD once before, getting 16 minutes into the first episode before getting sleepy. But the images lingered, hanging around in my head like the tendrils of cigarette smoke that dominate the screen in this show based in the advertising world of 1960s Madison Avenue.

Mad Men has been critically acclaimed, and it is easy to see why. It captures the polished veneer, the glamour of cigarettes, bourbon, and the entrepreneurial, creative drive of that world; it also portrays in stark terms the sexism and misogyny of the age. The characters are nuanced: likable, contemptible, pitiful. This first episode set the stage for a wide range of narratives.

I hope the show lives up to the promise of this first episode. Judging by the awards it has received, it does.

In honor of starting on this particular narrative path, a brief updated list on advertisements that should be considered abysmal failures, in that they make me want to do anything but partake of the advertised products, up to but not including self-inflicted bodily harm:

1) Subway. Jared was irritating enough, but the new "Five Dollar Footlong" musical montages make me feel sick, and I can't help but thinking of grease when I think of their sandwiches. I don't know why.

2) Burger King. That creepy King figure needs to go away, and their new Sir Mix-a-Lot/Spongebob Squarepants mix is probably the worst thing I have seen since Subway commercials. Seriously, a guy can only poke out his eyes so many times.

3) Anything McDonalds, but in particular the billboard they put up on Mission Street in such a way as to have it loom directly above a Burger King. I'm sure the thought process was that it would be a bit of a tweak aimed at their rivals, saying "We're at a higher level," or something like that. But if so, that's just annoying. And plus, if it makes someone hungry for bad, salty food, they are just as liable to go right into the Burger King, because that would be much faster bad food.

Healing: The Other Side of Retribution

W. R. Grace and its executives were acquitted. That is hard to take.

The chemical products company accused of knowingly covering up facts concerning asbestos and health risks at its vermiculite mine in Libby, where a health crisis is now and has been in full bloom for years, has emerged from the trial in Missoula, Montana with no one facing jail time.

According to reports, there were many problems with the prosecution's case. There would have to be either prosecutorial incompetence or else no real case at all for an acquittal to happen in Missoula, Montana, I would think.

And so, what next for the residents of Libby? Those who have lost friends and family to disease?

There are civil cases pending against W. R. Grace still, but whether that will provide any sort of closure is hard to predict. The real question is, what can be done to ameliorate the situation now? Can anything be done?

The question of healing versus retribution is one that is much in play in our society at this time: the argument over who--if anyone--should face criminal charges for writing legal memos justifying waterboarding; the demand from Iraqis that the U.S. soldier convicted of raping and murdering an Iraqi girl and killing her family be put to death, lest all trust in America be lost. These are all questions that charge the notion of retribution with heavy political significance. I'm not going to answer these questions, but they need to be considered.

The thing to remember is that efforts at healing must be pursued no matter what happens in terms of retribution.

Random Baseball Thoughts For Mother's Day

First one, of course, is neither random nor baseball-oriented. Happy Mother's Day, missprune. Enjoy a sunny spring day in Hamilton. Here's hoping we see you in the Bay Area this summer.

******

Baseball's Sunday morning broadcasts on TBS seem to have a series of highlights sponsored by Viagra; last time I saw a "Viagra Game Changing Moment" of a home run by Mike Schmidt; today it showed the demolition of an outdated Atlanta stadium.

Does baseball really approve of its highlights being brought to us by a performance-enhancing substance?

******

Speaking of, as a Giants fan, I can't help giggling over the suspension of the Dodgers' Manny Ramirez for 50 games. They didn't dodge that suspension, that's for sure.

I'm torn; I don't want to gloat too much, because of that old karmic carousel; but then again, we're talking about the Dodgers.

To be fair, the Dodgers fans next to us last year were gracious enough when the Giants rallied to win in the bottom of the ninth.

******

The Giants face the Dodgers in LA on TV this afternoon. Tim Lincecum takes the hill. Let's get him some runs and take the rubber game of the series, Giants. It will prove the infinite moral superiority of our city to theirs, and really, that's the most important problem these days.

*******

A month or so ago, I read an article that said that stewards at Yankees games frequently chain off certain exits from the stands during performances of 'God Bless America.' Can't have fans going to the bathroom during enforced patriotism/religious self-aggrandizing sessions after all. And no, singing 'God Bless America' has nothing to do with the memories of the sacrifices made by and the bravery of the New York firefighters and police officers. We don't need to sing that particular song to recognize that.

As if we needed more reasons to loathe the Yankees. It's like they are a conglomeration of overly-generous Santa Clauses who only give insulting presents.

Revisiting The Irrelevant About Whom We Keep Talking

So this is my effort to talk in a fair and unbiased manner about two people who irk me and shouldn't be held up in such spotlights as those they have found, but who will continue to polarize for fundamental reasons that aren't going away anytime soon.

I'm talking about Joe The (unlicensed) Plumber and Carrie Prejean, Miss(ing the spirit of human kindness) California.

1) Joe The Plumber has come and gone and shown up again. I'm not sure why he keeps being interviewed. Today, though, he has talked about gays, which you just know will surprise everyone with his inclusive and progressive perspective.

Ha.

Samuel Wurzelbacher is, in fact, the embodiment of the hypocrisy of the "No offense, but . . ." statement.

He talks about how gays are 'queer' in that they are strange and unusual from his perspective, which therefore must make it okay for him to say that, because he says that it isn't a slur.

I'm getting dizzy. I think my spin meter must be broken.

The capper is this quote, though: "I've had some friends that are actually homosexual. And, I mean, they know where I stand, and they know that I wouldn't have them anywhere near my children. But at the same time, they're people, and they're going to do their thing."

Maybe they were friends to him. He's obviously not a friend to them. 'I wouldn't have them near my children'? Nice.

2) Carrie Prejean. Oh, Carrie. Yes, your answer to Perez Hilton's question cost you the title of Miss USA, and I'm not sorry for it, because even if the Miss USA was something more than an objectification of women, and even if I could find an ounce of possible inspiration in the results of that contest, you would not represent me (and soon, you might not even represent California, judging by the articles exploring your violations of the contract from the pageant, not that those 'scandals' are anything that I give a damn about--you posed for a lurid photo, and your image is being used for non-pageant-administration-approved advertisements and videos; who cares?).

Here's the thing. I saw the video of your response, and yes, there was a hint of fascism to your "In My Country" rhetoric, but you were, essentially, expressing your own belief, to which you are entitled. I was willing to give you a mild pass on that.

But then you turn around and actively work for a 'defense of marriage' campaign. That's just heartless, and belies what you said about it being a great country where people could do 'that.'

Evangelism, proselytization, these are offensive things to me. You can believe what you want to support your own life. But to act to inflict your views over those of others on such a subject as love and marriage, that's wrong; that is not a love of other people.


Why is it that we keep talking about these people? What century are we in again?

Paddling Into Life, Or The Volcano of Adulthood

I'm going to Hawaii. I bought a non-refundable ticket last night for July 3rd through the 12th.

Before you panic, it is a round trip ticket. I'm still your guy, San Francisco.

Here's the thing. The economy is tight and I live in a magical but definitely expensive city. But I have a plan.

Step one, I procured a bunch of coin rollers from work. I deposited $12 in dimes and nickels today, enough to cover lunch (a new discovery at Crepe and Coffee, the turkey sandwich, with a solid combination of wheat bread, mayo, turkey, mustard, lettuce, and an apple slice), which is almost like proving that there is such a thing as a free lunch, if you consider that liberating my own money from the limbo of loose change--because really, who spends nickels, dimes and especially pennies these days--is kind of like creating money from nothing.

Step two, just do it, damn the costs. I've started a 401k, so I'm saving a bit no matter what each month, which will hopefully be better in the long run than what I could set aside in a savings account right now. So might as well use it. And it's Hawaii.

We put off a trip to Baja in March because of a sudden increase in costs. Maybe the same reasoning could apply, but hell, if you're going to spend money, might as well travel. And there are whales in Hawaii too.

I don't have the funds or time to plan a trip to Europe this year. A trip to Hawaii? It has to be done. I'll probably get to make friends with a shark and toast marshmallows over a volcano. And it will make me much more efficient and budget-conscious, I think, which I am actually excited about, while still doing awesome things like traveling to Hawaii. I went to Trader Joe's tonight, and felt a little frisson of excitement over putting together a dinner of a peanut butter sandwich, bok choi, and a sliced apple. Am I nerdy?

And darned proud of it.

In fact, I would say to you that becoming an adult practically demands going to Hawaii.

Of course, I might not be right about that, but I'm saying it anyway.

******
Related travel notes, considered while reading Travel & Leisure, my new indulgence of a subscription, to replace the much-pricier Sports Illustrated:

1) Worldwide restaurants with aspirations of prominence compete for a "Michelin star." Yes, that Michelin. Is it any wonder that the "Michelin Man" is made of so many spare tires?

2) How do airlines, hotels, etc., track the effectiveness of advertising in magazines like Travel & Leisure? There must be the same business-oriented preference for online advertising that is pillaging the newspaper industry (see the demise of the print publication of The Onion in San Francisco, announced this week). With online advertising, you can count clicks in an Orwellian monitoring of people's behavior.

I suppose that some of the special offers, where you have to punch in codes for discounts, will allow both the magazines involved and the merchants in question to track from which sources the responses stem. It makes me think also of Mad Men, of which I've only seen the first fifteen minutes of the pilot episode and yet can't stop contemplating. For all the faults in society in days of old--and what society doesn't have what will one day become faults in the eye of the beholder--could they be said to be better off if they lacked the ability to follow exactly what someone was browsing online?

Cinematic Sojourns, Movie Nights

I. SATURDAY NIGHT

Vaughn and Tara came over to Marina's place, and we made tacos, offering turkey-chicken organic sausage, ground beef for the heathens, i.e. not me, salsa, pupusas, shredded cheese, torn up blue corn tortillas by way of homemade chips, and to drink, Negro Modelos in their small bottles with the gold foil.

It was movie night in Bernal.

We were determined to find a good comedy that everyone would like. Marina and I were especially eager to pawn the decision off on Vaughn and Tara after the Night of In Bruges, which was good and had funny moments, but yeah, a dead dwarf and people falling from the sky and blood and violence didn't exactly promote a sense of lightness and comic jubilation

They brought with them a list of potential films, some obviously picked by Tara, some obviously picked by Vaughn, and a few good compromises. After some indecision, Marina and Tara threatened us with Bride Wars, and Vaughn and I, calling on some genetic survival instinct that allowed humanity to survive until we could build tools, instantly voted for Pineapple Express.*

*For clear disclosure, I watched and enjoyed He's Just Not That Into You. Also Sex And The City.

(WARNING: Spoilers of Pineapple Express, I Love You, Man, and possibly Tropic Thunder.)

Pineapple Express has a polished comic pedigree, kind of like the potential offspring of Tina Fey and Joss Whedon: Judd Apatow, Seth Rogen, James Franco, the ghastly boss from Office Space, and the absurdity that is pot. Everything I've heard of the movie has been positive, and indeed the movie starts out with a very solid, entertaining comic dynamic with just the right mix of slapstick, marijuana wackiness, and genuine quirky character development that promises a good story, even paired with a sudden murder, which is like pairing a red wine with a dinner of sauerkraut.

Then we get maybe three-quarters of the way into the movie, and fall into a Burmese Tiger Pit of a 'What the hell just happened?' moment.

Maybe it intends it as a satire, but the movie is suddenly a quagmire of bizarre and semi-comic utter violence, choosing as a method of resolving the plot lines a strategy along the lines of that which Jehovah took with respect to Sodom and Gomorrah.

Maybe, as Vaughn said, they could have edited the scenes down to about twenty minutes and retained the flavor they had established, but for me, the entire film breaks down and loses its character in mania. Which is too bad, because the first part of the movie was quite good.

Vaughn thinks it is a hard thing for a comedy to remain true to itself, and I agree. Look at Tropic Thunder: it starts out with a pretty funny satirical edge, but then literally triggers another one of those 'what the hell' moments. You know it is not quite hitting the right tone for you when you find yourself thinking, 'Oh, god, they're still going on about this, huh?"

A notable exception I've seen recently is I Love You, Man, starring Paul Rudd and Jason Segel. The comedy in this movie is very human, and retains the small, subtle, very personal focus, despite the occasional rough spot, notably the slightly overwrought reconciliation scene at the end. Paul Rudd exquisitely plays on those feelings of awkwardness we get both when we are less than socially adept ourselves and when we are around others who a bit socially clumsy themselves.

Pineapple Express triggered a bit of that sense of awkwardness too, mainly because the movie itself became a little clumsy at the end. The silver lining to that, of course, was that we could go from laughing from mirth to laughing from disbelief over how bad it became so quickly.

It helped to have three flavors of ice cream to mix and match. We were quite hungry.

Coming up in Part II, a journey to the Canadian Rockies, for lots of boyness, i.e., bullets, swords, Hugh Jackman, and a whole lot of special effects.

II. SUNDAY AFTERNOON

WARNING: WOLVERINE SPOILAGE AHEAD, a warning previously only seen in Wisconsin or Michigan, I believe.

In the wake of the Pineapple Express derailment, it might have been supposed that something light and fluffy would be in order for the following day, but proving that she is ultimately the best of all possible best sports, Marina agreed to--even suggested--a Sunday afternoon screening of X-Men Origins: Wolverine, the excessively punctuated comic book flick featuring Hugh Jackman in his most action-packed role since the Oscars.

We had read reviews that criticized Wolverine as a movie.

But the thing is, it isn't trying to be a movie qua art qua cinema. It's trying to be a fun story, a summer blockbuster, a comic book movie, and it is true to itself, which I think says a lot. The movie is not trying to establish its credentials as the next Citizen Kane; it's trying to make a lot of money.

The movie is pretty spectacular in the literal sense; lots of mutant powers, pure coolness of innovation in the arts of hitting, kicking, throwing, shooting, exploding things, etc.

"Yes," I told, Marina. "I am a boy. And yes, I do like this stuff."

It was a boy afternoon, after all, right down to the wandering around Anthropologie in Marina's wake while she shopped for a friend's birthday gift, wearing the same air of patience as the other men wandering or sitting down like strangers in a fragile strange land where they weren't sure they should be.

It was a rainy day in a rainy weekend, the pavement washed clean of dirt, the air washed clean of pollen, and the towers of the shopping heart of San Francisco seemed to hum with energy, although that might have just been a humid combination of perfume and wet people in Sephora. In other words, it was a great day for a movie, because you could sit in a dark theater in the middle of the day, guilt-free.

And in terms of an origin story, Wolverine was very successful. There were a few moments that felt a bit odd, like Patrick Stewart's cameo which was filmed with an Audrey Hepburn-esque soft focus that I thought was a bit much. Overall, though, it struck a good balance of action and foreshadowing what would happen in the previous movies. I'm not an expert in the canon of Wolverine and the X-Men, but as someone who enjoyed the original three X-Men movies, I found this incarnation to be quite satisfying.


And isn't that all one needs ask of a movie?