Sneak preview of "Pan's Labyrinth''

One of the great things about Columbia's MFA program is the free events at the School of the Arts building (Dodge Hall.) The Film Division, for example, has screenings almost every week, featuring first-run movies, including many that are in the sneak-preview phase. The film division lets us know about these things, in the form of flyers and emails, but we get so many emails about goings-on that it's easy to miss the best offerings. Last week I saw Guillermo Del Toro's "Pan's Labyrinth,'' a strange but potent blend of horror-movie images, Grimm-style fairy tales and Franco-era fascist nastiness. The movie focuses on an 11-year-old girl whose stepfather is a cruel and overbearingly macho Franco supporter. He's in charge of an outpost on the edge of a vast forest, where guerrillas are hiding out and mounting attacks against the Fascists. Trespassers and curfew breakers --- including two hapless rabbit hunters -- are gunned down on sight. The interweaving of fantasy sequences (from the girl's imagination), and the Fascists-fighting-the-guerrillas sequences, is extremely well-done. The girl's imagination takes her to some increasingly dark places, including the lair of the "Pale Man,'' a cannibal with eyes in his hands. He presides over a banquet table. If a guest dares to take any item of food from the table -- even a single grape -- the Pale Man, a dead-ringer for Goya's "Saturn Devouring His Children,' springs into action and devours them. De Toro himself was on hand to talk about making the movie. In an eye-opening and profanity-laced interview, he said he was trying to create a film about disobedience in the face of an overwhelming power. This movie is a "Harry Potter'' for adults. (Impressionable kids should steer clear. It's full of sudden violence, torture sequences and some pretty off-putting horror imagery.) If nothing else, it's a reminder of a nasty (and recent) episode in Spain's tragic past. De Toro spoke of Generalisimo Franco "dying happy, in bed,'' in the mid-1970s.

Rename Donner Pass

Lately I've been doing a lot of research about California (my home state) and the emigrants who made their slow, miserable way across the Great Salt Flats in the 1850s. After reading quite a few books, I'm puzzled by one thing: Why is Donner Pass named after the Donners, the murderous, quarrelsome and (some would say) stupid group of people who left too late, brought way too much stuff, took an ill-advised 'shortcut' and wound up marooned in shanties in the Sierra Nevada, where they were forced to eat axle grease, dogs, mice, coyotes, rawhide, and, eventually, each other? It's not just the fact that Donner party behaved in reprehensible ways. On top of all this, they were not the first emigrants to cross the pass that bears their name. A homely -former blacksmith and fur trapper named Elisha Stephens crossed the same pass a full two years before the Donners clawed and gnawed their way across it. In fact, Stephens did not lose a single man, woman or child in his wagon train while half the Donner Party died of starvation and exposure. Stephens got very little glory for his role in all this. He ended up a beekeeper in Bakersfield and died alone and obscure. It's strange, how people who make a mess of things can become household names. Sometimes, doing your job properly, and quietly, confines you to the dustbin of history.

Beauty in a rat-infested courtyard

Sometimes you can find beauty in seemingly disgusting places. For example: my wife and I live in an attractive Pre-War apartment building, and Columbia owns the place so the rent is way cheaper than it would be if it was market price. Anyhow, there is a dungeon-like courtyard where we must go to do the laundry. It's in the basement of our building. To get there you must descend some rusted-out stairs to an enclosed flat area with large stinking Dumpsters (registered trademark) where some of the fattest burliest rats in the world live and thrive. In fact, every other time I get there, a huge honking rat runs right in front of me, looking terrified. It's kind of strange, the way rats run in terror every time I approach. It's not like I'm going to try to pet them or eat them. Anyhow, I was dragging our laundry down the stairs of that rat-infested hellhole when, all of a sudden, I heard this unearthly sound: a woman singing, mezzosoprano, perfect pitch, perfect tone, and the sounds of it were wafting through the air, out of an open window on one of the upper floors. It was one of those moments where everything seems to stop for a while. I just stood there with my laundry basket balanced on one of the stairs and listened for 10 minutes. It was like front row seats at the Met. Then the singing stopped and the courtyard was quiet again. Only in New York.

Hair-raising True Stories about the Natural World

Yesterday I asked my students to come up with some stories about the natural world, situations that challenged their assumptions about man and nature. They came up with all kinds of amazing stories. One of them talked about having to fed off a horde of crazy raccoons when he was in elementary school. Another told me that his surf break was temporarily rendered off-limits when wildlife officials tried to 'bury' a dead whale at sea, attracting the attention of enormous white sharks. Another was shocked by the murderous behavior of his feral cat. One student was shocked when he moved to New York and saw that the shy, retiring squirrels of his countryside home were nothing at all like the vicious aggressive squirrels we have here in the city. It's all part of a class section in which the students will be reading essays about man's uneasy relationship with nature. We started things off with a screening of "Grizzly Man,'' Werner Herzog's strange and hair-raising documentary about Timothy Treadwell, the grizzly enthusiast who was, eventually, eaten by one of his ungrateful (and hungry) beneficiaries. The class mostly thought he was well-intentioned but a total kook. We're going to put these experiences in context by reading Henry David Thoreau, John Muir, Aldo Leopold, Bill McKibben and others. I'm hoping to develop this (eventually) into a semester-long course. Another instructor in the writing program helped me out immensely by suggesting an essay about William Cronon, which challenges the American view of "man'' and "nature'' being separate realms. He claims that city parks and city trees are just as 'natural' as their counterparts in the forest.

A more positive outlook about experimental fiction

This is a revised version of my previous post about experimental fiction. The previous post was -- in all seriousness --- kind of a joke, the result of some exasperation. I sent out my strange little story to a couple of magazines and got some perplexed responses. However, I will continue my publishing quest while trying to flesh out this story. I wrote this piece for a class in my writing program. The other day, I ran into the writer who teaches the course. I told him I was having a bit of trouble finding a home for this thing and he said, "Well, it should be a book.'' That was pretty cool to hear him say that. However, I'm wondering if people will buy an entire book about Golem-like slave children made of terracotta and wood, with raisins for eyes. The cool thing is, after I published that last post, a couple of classmates have emailed me with some thoughts on this matter --- many thanks.

Thank God for Po, and lack of subway tweakers

This is an unbelievable restaurant (in the village.) There were gnaw-marks on my plate by the time they finally dragged me out of there. It's on Cornelia Street, just off Bleecker. My wife wanted to go there because she just read "Heat,'' a book about Mario Battali. Battali doesn't actually work at Po anymore, but the restaurant is doing just fine without him. We had the gnocchi and the cod. For once there were no loud tweakers on the subway to kill the mood. And there were no tuba trios or rats on the way home. I've been extremely busy lately so this was a nice break. By the way, uneventful subway rides are a rarity for me this month. Why, just the other day, I was taking a southbound 1 to somewhere or other. Some guy stepped on another guy's foot and, instead of apologizing, made kissy-kissy noises at the offended party!! I kept thinking, just apologize and shut up and stop giving this guy air kisses, please, but he just kept doing this. I was sitting right between them and was sure they were going to throw punches but I waited it out and nothing happened.

Raging tuba headache

So I was hanging out in Soho with my wife the other day, and we were eating Portuguese food at a restaurant with outdoor seating, right next to the Ear Inn. It was a nice, balmy evening, a hint of breeze, and the servers ladled out this great big pile of bacalao fried up with onion and egg on my plate. So far so good. Amy ordered some crazy dish --- shrimps with lemon shellfish bread pudding. Then suddenly out of nowhere I heard the blaring squawking shriek of a trumpet, a tuba and a snare drum. A trio of street musicians called the Stumblebums started cakewalking down the sidewalk, shrieking and wailing and making all kinds of faces while dressed up as tinpan alley tunesmiths from Prohibition times. They sounded like a cross between the Squirrel Nut Zippers, Tom Waits and an industrial gas-powered leaf-blower. I kind of like them --- they have style --- but I wish they wouldn't play so loudly. When they moved close to our table, it was just so ungodly loud, it felt like my skull was going to unhinge itself from my spinal chord. Waiters and diners watched helplessly as the Stumblebums squawked and wailed, with the drunken encouragement of Ear Inn patrons, who were lining up outside to get in to that bar. I'm wondering if the Stumblebums are one of those weird only-in-New York traditions that I'm supposed to know about already. I just hope this roving wind ensemble doesn't read this and somehow figure out where I live and show up to my apartment at three in the morning with drums and tubas a-blaring. That would be a horrible thing.

My claim to fame revisited: obscene tree article link available on this blog

The story on this link is about a woman who turned her tree into an obscene sculpture to enrage her neighbors. This story caused a very brief stir and got me on a bunch of Howard Stern wannabe radio stations across the U.S. This may well be my high watermark, so here is the link, and keep in mind that the story has an accompanying photo that is absolutely not workplace friendly, even though the photo just shows a tree. But what a tree!!! Let me know if this link doesn't work. Being a Luddite, I could not figure out how to just post the article straight up on this blog. This will be the last entry for a while because I want everyone (in other words, the both of you) to see this stupid article first.

www.santacruzsentinel.com/archive/2002/May/08/local/stories/05local.htm

Last chance to see Patty LuPone play the tuba

We just saw the incredible restaging of "Sweeney Todd'' on Broadway with Michael Cerveris and Patty LuPone. Scary, pitch-perfect, wonderfully imaginative. It's not every day that you get to see LuPone act and sing and shake her booty while dressed up like a 19th Century London slattern and, at the same time, playing a drum kit, a tuba (actually, a baritone) and triangles. In fact, all the actors play instruments --- flute, violin, cello, etc --- which explains why it's almost impossible for this production to find understudies for any of these parts. I guess that if someone gets sick, the producers just pump them full of Biaxin and shove them out on the stage. It is amazing that we got tickets at all and that I could afford them; my budget is so limited that my theater going experiences are usually restricted to off-off-off-off Broadway productions such as "Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well And Living In Paris'' performed by trained squirrels and a gerbil in somebody's basement on the outskirts of Queens --- so it's great that we actually saw a bonafide production. They even moved up our seats so we were way close to the stage, at the front of the balcony. See it while you can. It's in its last 17 performances and closes Sept. 3. The only drawback of the day was almost getting into a brawl in the southwestern edge of Central Park with a horse and carriage driver who was hassling us to take his stupid tour and wouldn't take no for an answer. I can't stand the hack drivers. They are mean to their horses and look ridiculous with their chimneysweeper hats. Anyhow, I told the guy to get stuffed, or the rough equivalent of that. The actual words I said to him are "work inappropriate'' so I won't repeat them here.

Last chance to see

Some guy is trying to earn money off this blog

I just got a message from some guy, saying he was disappointed to read this blog and find no great advice about making money. Believe me, i am the LAST person you would want to consult about money. I am your go-to guy if you want advice about doughnuts, Entertainment Weekly, pop culture, fast food, etc., but if you're looking for advice about investments, you should probably read that Lee Iacocca book if it's still in print. I think I saw a nasty coffee-stained copy down at the Strand.

Only in New York --- felony hit and run narrowly averted

You won't believe this. We hired a car to take us back to Harlem/Morningside Heights because we were traveling with a cat. It was air-conditioned, comfortable, leather seats and everything. What could possibly go wrong? The black Lincoln Sedan cruised through Harlem with us in the back seat, and the driver had just banked a turn onto Amsterdam Avenue, when a kid (on foot, a toddler) runs right into the moving car! The car was going about 20 mph and we heard this horrible bone-crunching "kronk" and we turn around and the kid is yelping; he's been knocked off his feet from flinging himself into the still-moving car (which should not have been moving at all. The driver clearly saw the kid running around like crazy in the street and he should have stopped and waited.). So the driver finally stopped. A moment passed, and the kid was wailing but it turns out he was unhurt, so the driver , after checking whether he was all right, scolded him --- "Watch where you are giong!'' Then the kid's mother shows up with anger in her eyes --- but instead of raging at the driver, she rages at the kid: "Yes, watch where you are going!!!'' It was weird to see so much blame cast on this little toddler who didn't know what he was doing, especially in litigious America, where you can sue a fast food place just because you burned yourself on some coffee. I'd better watch my step when I'm jogging through traffic this year!

Summer reading: from memoirs to margarine

Every summer I read as widely as possible. This summer, I read "Mountains Beyond Mountains'' by Tracy Kidder, (terrific, though it makes you feel like a heel for not helping other people as much as you should) "Candy Girl'' by Diablo Cody (a memoir by a stripper from the Midwest; a page-turner, funny, out-there and irreverent. She slathers on the similes like butter on a heel of sourdough bread, but then again, so do I. I love similes. ) "My Lives" by Edmund White (terrific, though parts of it shocked me so much that it made me feel prudish) a large chunk of "Remembrances of Things Past'' by Marcel Proust (sure, his writing, at times, is a tsunami of logorrhea (example of metaphor, not simile!) but his endless novel captures the beautiful misery of infatuation better than any other writer. The thing about Proust is, you have to read him secretly and in total darkness with a flashlight or else everyone will think you are pretentious. But it's safe to mention him on a blog that no one ever reads.) I also read a manual, from the middle-1950s, about margarine and butter production. It was one of those situations where you are at a library, bored, and you vow to go through a row of books and blindly pick one out and force yourself to read whatever you put your hand on. The book wasn't half bad but there was way too much "demographics of oleo consumption'' in the middle half. It mucked up the pace with statistics and bar graphs. Fortunately the book perked up again when the author started talking about butterfat ratios toward the end. The book has been in Butler library for 53 years --- and I was the first person on record to ever check it out!! They had to create a barcode just for me.

Will you please leash your unwashed rodentish hound puppies?

A terrifying flat-faced puppy of unknown origins paid an unwanted visit to Rio Del Mar beach and wreaked all kinds of havoc. It was ugly as a bat and had fangs at least a foot long hanging out of its mouth. It came after me and my borrowed beagle yesterday, and guess whether or not this beast was on a leash. The answer is NO. Anyhow it came snarling through the sands and was just about to attack my beagle for rent when I gathered up my courage and performed an intervention. I created a human shield between the beagle and the monster puppy and told it very loudly to 'turn around and please go home.' Just then a woman appeared behind a mound of mouldering seaweed. She accused me of speaking in an undiplomatic voice to her puppy. She was slathered head to toe with tattoos and her yawns smelled like Bourbon. Let's just say that I'm bringing the bear mace to the beach from now on. What's next? Dingos? Hyenas?

We're the subjects of an article

We are the subjects of an in-depth article today with a glamorous photo of Amy. The link is http://www.gtweekly.com/arts/story.2006-07-19.4141159636

If you think this is the end of the Amy publicity onslaught, you are wrong. Mattel is releasing a whole line of Amy swag next month --- Amy tote bags, Amy compacts, Amy hairbrushes, etc.

Today I received a message!!!!

This is incredible. Today, my blog received an actual message!!!!!!!!!! you will have to scroll down to find it, but this now proves that I have at least one reader again. I'm sorry if I alienated my readership before, though there is no way of knowing this for sure because of the zero messages I received. I don't want to end up like the Dixie Chicks, alienating their whole fan base. I don't disagree with the Chicks' politics but it's silly to insult absolutely everyone who buys your records, down to the last person. It's kind of like Barney going up on stage in England and saying, "Guess what, I hate kids secretly. They are dirty and smelly!'' So if you're still out there, I promise to pander to your tastes and wants. Unfortunately this means that I will have to take feedback.

Guess WHAT --- starting today, people can now write into this blog more easily

I often notice that no one ever writes into the blog. Aside from the fact that the blog is, at times, quite boring, there is another reason for this; it is almost impossible to post your messages on the blog!! For some reason, my blog is set up to make message posting extremely difficult. Before today, you had to create a blog of your own (how boring) or join the Witness Protection Program just to get a message to Cactuseaters. But no longer. After some minor tweaks, my Web designer has opened up the feedback floodgates. Now absolutely anyone with an opposable thumb can write into this blog. So go ahead and let me know you are out there (or don't, and that way I will know for sure that the blog is boring and that I must pander) best wishes from Cactuseaters

Everyone wish my father a happy birthday

My father is rolling up here to celebrate his 80th birthday tomorrow. My sister and brother-in-law have something special planned for him. Moving to NYC has given me a chance to trace my father's footsteps. I had a great experience walking around his childhood haunts in the Lower East Side of Manhattan with him this year. He's originally from the Alphabet City area but spent his formative years in the Lower East and later in the South Bronx (he still has a very faint accent from those times) We toured the Tenement Museum, which features a perfectly preserved set of rooms that look almost exactly like the ones in which he grew up. For extra authenticity, they don't bother with such fripperies as air conditioning. The neighborhood has changed --- no more pushcarts, stickball, and nag horses pulling loads of shmattes. A half-century ago, Mayor LaGuardia had a huge chunk of this neighborhood pulled down in a slum clearance project. Now, 26-story projects have taken the place of his tenement. We couldn't even find the intersection on which he lived. There is a quite a disparity between hip wealth and old-style Lower East now. In certain sections of the Lower East you can buy $6 chocolate bars and $9 tubs of gelato from the storefronts on the street level of old brownstones --- but you can still see the zig-zagging fire escapes , the live poultry traders and the cheap-suit hawkers. Katz's is still there, they still glare at you when you order but give you free samples of pastrami. We ate huge corn beef sandwiches and had Brooklyn Lagers there a few months back. Katz's, when he was growing up, was an unimaginable luxury for him. "I was aware of it but never ate there,'' he said. Now he's getting a chance to see the world and enjoy his retirement. Father is a terrific raconteur, full of dramatic and funny stories. In spite of his urban background, he also introduced me to backcountry trekking in the mountains. I'm looking forward to some good wine and snacks with him tomorrow.

I am slathered with hot coffee!!!

One morning, I took the borrowed beagle out to Full Of Beans Coffee House, near the beach, to get two huge take-away cups of coffee for me and my wife. The dog was going crazy inside the store, and sniffed a box full of Keebler peanut butter fingers and tried to eat a scone. The owner gave the dog a milk biscuit --- which the borrowed beagle did not like at all--- and then handed me the two beyond-molten coffees without even offering me a tray. So here's what I did. I tied the beagle to one of the belt loops of my jeans and staggered out of the coffee shop, with the beagle sniffing every spot of gum and every gross food item on the sidewalk. Every time the beagle would rush forward to lick or sniff something or somebody, my coffees would lurch forward, spewing their brown contents all over my shirt and pants and all over the racks of newspapers in front of the Pixie Plaza. I lurched down the street, my beagle running loops around my legs, my coffee flying all over the place. By the time I got back to my wife, my large coffee was a small and her medium was gone.

Mom, please skip over this message. It's about dingos. The message just below it is about your birthday.

I wish the people who live near me would respect leash laws on the beach. I understand that Santa Cruz is made up of people with libertarian impulses. However, it's unfortunate that libertarians all own 250-pound untrained dingos that should be pacing the Dangerous Animals enclosure of some scumbo roadside zoo instead of hanging around on the beach, eating other dogs and people. My borrowed beagle puppy is getting sick of big pooches coming up from behind and sniffing her in ungainly areas and then trying to jump on her and then trying to eat me. Today the ugliest dog I've ever seen came stomping over to us, no leash in sight. I tried to be polite so I stopped running with my borrowed puppy and let the walking dishrag sniff and snort and belch at my puppy for a while. Just then, the dog's owner stopped and scolded me loudly for letting his dog sniff my beagle. "If you're out for a run, then keep on running, pal,'' he said. Yesterday, two Pekingeses shoved me into the water and tried to take my sandwich.