Charlie and the Michael Jackson Freakshow

I went out and saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory last Friday night with my friend McDavid. Now, McDavid is a student of dramatic literature, so I was going to throw out any criticisms she might have had, almost immediately, because she is coming from a different land than most conscious beings. I liked the film, though I will have to say careful post-watching reflection has brought certain flaws to the forefront for me. I'm just going to talk about everything all at once, though.

First of all, Charlie is a cute, cute kid. His teeth are just starting to show that handsome/grotesque English badness. He is abominably good. He sleeps in a room in the top of the house, and his window is really an open hole in the roof. I didn't get why he didn't freeze to death, but perhaps it was just one of those things I was supposed to accept and not question. Charlie appears to just kind of hang out, and doesn't really go to school or anything. We find out towards the end that he might be a shoe shiner, but I have no idea if this is a one time stint or an ongoing occupation, because there is no through-line on the subject.
Also, Grandpa Joe is the same old skinny actor from Waking Ned Divine, a film I absolutely loved. And Charlie's mother is Helena Bonham Carter. Gorgeous. The other great casting plus (aside from Johnny, who I will get to in a minute) is the character of Mike TV, who almost uncannily resembled the original actor of the 1970's classic.

The moment Johnny Depp stepped onto the screen, I almost screamed. The guy is Michael Jackson. I wonder if stage directions sounded like this. "Ok, Johnny, now in this scene, I want you to act like Michael Jackson. Ok, great. Now, in this next scene, act like Michael Jackson. Ok, here just act bored and make fun of the kids. Ok, now act like Michael Jackson." I mean, the guy must have been watching the trial or something, because he had it down. Really pasty skin, bad hair, weird clothes, said really bizarre stuff, and acted creepy around kids. He was like a MJ clone.

This is where McDavid took the low road, but I hightailed it and beat her to Scotland. She felt like things were overdone, and a bit perefunctory at times. The latter part I might concede to on occasion, but definitely not the former. The original "Charlie" film was groundbreaking in its time. Roald Dahl was an irreverent genius of kiddie lit. This is the curse disguised as a blessing for those wishing to remake such a classic film.
How can the original impact of the film be felt when so many have seen it, have a certain set of expectations, and are also familiar with the written work? Well, just enough has to change- Violet's parent becomes a mom, Mike TV's parent is a dad. There is no Slugworth. Emphasis is put on background- we learn Charlie's dad is a toothpaste factory worker, and Willy's was a dentist. There is thought here- mere coincidence that both boys will grow up to be choclatiers?
The bar also has to be raised with the extremity of the film. Willy goes from a somewhat passive stance towards the children in the original, to an occasionally aggressive, antagonistic bully. His impotence to overcome his situation is nearly crippling to him, only being discovered in a therapy session with an oompa loompa. The film had to be taken to the next level to have the same impact on today's audience, in a louder, more caustic world, that the original had on its intended audience.

But don't take my word for it, Levar Burton. I definitely recommend a personal viewing, along with a large popcorn and some sweettarts. Not even this film could get me near the chocolate.

demon baby

My small cousins were in Michigan this week, and apparently went over to visit my grandparents who live there. Jim is addicted to his digital camera, shooting everything from collapsed lean-tos to plates of his uneaten dinner. They send me reams of photos all the time, and the picture above came from the latest batch, received today.

I love this little girl, Claire Emma Ferguson. She is almost exactly 20 years my junior, my youngest cousin. However, when I saw this picture, all I could do was scream.

Look out for the flaming massage oil!

So, last week when my family came out to visit me in my hippie/lesbian/wiccan town, I gave my mom and aunt massages. I have to insert a bit of history here, and tell you all that my mother is first of all an RN and skeptical of massage therapy, but also has chronically dry skin. So, I was excited to show her what massage can do. Let me say my statement about her skin is actually quite lacking- she has excema pretty much covering her body. 90 + percent, in fact.

She ended up really enjoying the massage, especially how moisturized she felt after I was done rubbing a massage gel blend of apricot, grapeseed and sesame oils into her very dry skin. So, I told her she could take the 2/3 of the jug of gel that I had left home with her. This is where Homeland Security steps in.

My mom was stopped at the conveyor belt while checking her carry on-where she decided to stash the gel, hoping it would be less likely to explode or come open than if it was in her suitcase. The dude at the monitor thought he saw what looked like a bleach jug and called her over to search her bag. Upon finding the offending gel, he seemed momentarily unconcerned, but was then shocked to find "highly flammable" in the fine print on the label. Well, duh. It's oil. He reported to his supervisor, who then reported to his supervisor. After thoroughly questioning my mother, cross-referencing her story with her flaking arms and cracked knuckles and the fact that she did say her daughter was in massage school, they agreed to let her board the flight, with her gel.

I'm glad we have these security checks- you never know what a wacko with a jug of massage gel could do.

Would you care for a peanut butter and Jehovah sandwich?

Is it even possible to eat the ineffable God? Transubstantiationists think so. Perhaps it should be the inedible God.

ACT 3

Beyond all this driving around and tourist hawking, I've been wandering around, writing a little and reading Kerouac for the first time. And finding a ghostly beat ancestor there, going west for the sheer westness of it, much as I am doing now. I feel the need to soak up all around me, and yet be a little detatched all at the same time. I had a review at work, and they told me if I am ever stressed nobody knows it because I look so calm, almost too calm, all of the time. I do get stressed. I have a featherlight, strawberry-patterned scar on my right hip to prove it. Its just that I don't get stressed about normal stuff, and I see little things as terribly important. I take time to fritter away meaninglessly, watching people or reading things of no real consequence. I totter back and forth between wanting to look at the mountains and not wanting to. The balance of grabbing life by the balls and ripping it off and being way to cool to even notice life, or notice life tourists, pins me down. I recently read the following from The Happy Isles of Oceania by Paul Theroux, "Tourists don't know where they've been. Travelers don't know where they're going."
All of the travel writing I read is morose and excited all at the same time, like if the author doesn't pull back in a moment they'll be crushed with the weight of being able to move about freely.

I got an email from an old friend, Andy Brown, today. He apologized for some junk that went down two years ago. I forgot all about it, but his wife is expecting a child and I figure he wants to get everything off his chest and really be ready for fatherhood when it arrives. We worked everything out of course, as there really wasn't anything to be concerned about in the first place. He told me I sounded like I was on the right track when I told him about my black, church-hating heart. Little does he know....

So, things keep continuing on, much in the same way that they have. I don't really think about what is going to happen next, but just kind of look forward to it. I could be 400,000 different people next year, in one of 400,000 different places. I oscillate between being bored and riveted with anticipation.

Ringing bells- the surprise whirlwind tour

During the intermission, I would like to relate the following anecdote. I work with a lot of incredibly brilliant people. These are people who walk away from physics and philosophy degrees, full ride scholarships to med school, to live in Manitou and work at an organic restaurant and smoke pot. I feel incredibly lucky sometimes. We have the best conversations. And also like I'm in this weird sort of limbo of life where everyone will wake up one day and decide to be real people and go get into investment banking. So far, though, everyone keeps showing up to work every day. I'll just take it as it comes.

The specific item I have in mind concerns one modified Christmas Carol a certain Mr. Dustin Booth and I modified from it's original, 1960s context. The following should be sung to the tune of "Silver Bells."

"Ringing Bells"

Busy sidewalks, turning tables
Can you take six on eight?
In the air I can smell orange spice tea.
Crappy tippers, tourists from Texas,
What a thankless job it can be
From the kitchen you always will hear:
Ringing bells, ringing bells,
Your ten-top's food is on fire
Where's the meat, we want to eat
Do you think we could get straws?

Where's the bacon? And the sausage?
Do you have corned beef hash?
In the air there's a warm smell of tofu.
I need equal- Diet Coke please
We would like separate checks-
We just lost electricity
Ringing bells, ringing bells
Frog says that we're all out of bread
On your feet, we're out of seats,
Soon it will be Labor Day.



ACT 2

So I took 4 days off work last week and drove my mama, little bro and aunt Gretchen around the bee-yutiful state of Colorady. I picked them up from the airport Tuesday night, and we drove down and stayed with Brian and Mahgrit, kidnapping a sleepy, dirty buddy on the way. We ate late night soups and Brian was impish with me for not calling. Oh well. I give him free massages, so he never stays mad for long. The next day we took the original Colorado kid back to her 4 square foot basement apartment on Emerson and she held hands with my brother briefly for a photo. Then we took off down US 285 towards Chaffee County. On the way we stopped at Red Rocks and hiked, and then Morrison for lunch, which I declined. It was really hot.

We finally got to Beuna Vista sometime around 2 or 3, and then drive down to Mt. Princeton. We took the mountain road up to St. Elmo, an almost perfectly preserved 120 year old ghost town. A few buildings burned down in a freak accident about 5 years ago, so we looked at some piles of ash and old iron stoves. Then we fed chipmunks that live in a pile of old railroad ties, and walked around and peed in this weird outhouse that smelled bad enough to make you faint. Then we headed home, and saw Buffalo and Cows but no antelope. We had spaghetti for dinner at my house and fell asleep almost immediately.

Thursday saw us sleeping in a little, and then walking around Manitou for an hour or so before going down to lunch at Adam's. Then we went up to the Cog Railway and took the 2:40 train bound for the summit of Pike's Peak. One of the engines broke down about halfway up, so the trip ended up taking a little longer than usual. We pulled back into the station after much picture taking and fudge buying at about 7:15. Then we came back through town, looked around a little more and mostly waited on Gretchen to buy jewelry. We were back at my place by 8:15, then made dinner and after about an hour had passed I gave my mom a massage. Then we watched an A&E Biography on Don Knotts and fell asleep.

Friday we woke up and went over to Adam's for a late breakfast. Then we walked around town a little more and bought some crap. We came back to the house and changed clothes and drove around for a while, I took them to downtown Colo Springs, and over to my school, where the somewhat grouchy receptionist was kind enough to let us in for a self-guided tour. Then we drove back to the Garden of the Gods and hung out for a couple of hours, taking a rather extended hike and pausing for all sorts of photo ops. We got back to the house around 5 or so, and then my mom changed and she and I went up to the community for the gathering. That went well and we got back around nine. We hung out on the porch for a little bit and talked, and then we turned in sort of early.

Saturday morning Dan and I got up and were out by 8:30, and climbed most of the incline, coming down where the Barr Trail makes a switchback particularly close. We were back by 10:30, and showered and ate. Gretchen wanted a massage then, and everybody else wanted to buy last minute crap and pack up. Then we got everything into the car and started driving north and were in Denver by 2:30. We walked the 16th Street Mall one way and then rode the free bus back. Nobody bought anything. Then we went out to Golden and drove around a little bit and saw the Coors factory, and ate an early dinner at Ali Baba's Grill, the best Lebanese food around. Then I drove them out to the airport, a little early because we weren't sure about security only three days after the London bombings, and I dropped them off. Then I went out to Scott's and gave him a massage and looked around his apartment and whatnot. And then I drove home and went to bed.

[End of act two.]

The adventures of Jeff and Mahgrit- a play in three acts

So my family has been out this past week, visiting from Indiana. And a million other things happened.

ACT 1: THE GAL FROM DOWN UNDAH

Margaret Ward, a friend of Brian's from Australia, was out visiting for a couple of weeks. Or, as she would teach me to say, Mahgrit from Melbin, currently doing work on her Ph.D. at Melbin Yuni. I taught her to say, "Brian, you're full of crap," in her best, squashed-vowel American brogue. I hung out with her a couple of times while she was here, the best of which was over the fourth, which totally entranced her. What she couldn't get over was the "America" garb we clothe ourselves with. She said if anyone did that in Australia, they would be thought a tourist, or laughed at, or both. The cool thing was taking her out and parking Jeff (my Trooper) on south Wadsworth, where we could see all the fireworks displays from Golden to Castle Rock at the same time. Mahgrit had certainly never seen that many at once before. She also ran that night for the first time in ten years, and all eight of us piled on the top of my Trooper and sat for the best view of the staggered finales.

I also got to break Mahgrit's massage virginity while she was here. That was interesting. It's always funny to me how many clothes people wear the first time they get a massage, then by massage #3 they're buck naked almost before they hit the table. I'm down with modesty, don't get me wrong. I had just never had someone wear a skirt on my table before. She later promised me a place to live in Melbin, should I continue my moving-west-only game, and taught me that ocker (ahkah) means really outback-type people or accents- think crocodile dundee. Brian and I taught her what gringo means. And bathers are swimsuits.
So, good times were had by all.

(entre'acte)