I am seriously tempted to give myself an early birthday present. A mini-trip to NYC the weekend after next. Only problem is, on such short notice I’d likely have to fly solo. But I do have family to visit in Manhattan. And I haven’t been back in over five years. Geesh. NYC would be great at any time. So much to see and do, so many amazing vegan-friendly restaurants to eat at. But there is something behind this spontaneous fixation, other than my impending thirtieth. I can blame it on beinghunted. They posted a link, making me aware of the New York-Tokyo Film Festival. The bigger name highlights include the Wachowski Brothers, presenting the Animatrix shorts (my DVD is already in the mail). But I’m most interested in the other films. Especially “Electric Dragon 80,000V”. Here’s the blurb:
“FILM DESCRIPTION: One day while playing as a child on a power line tower, Dragon Eye Morrison receives a huge electrical shock. This ignites a long dormant pre-historic disposition for blind rage in his brain (aka his “dragon”). Doctors try in vain to suppress it with years of electroshock therapy. As an adult, Dragon Eye (Tadanobu Asano) finds solace in wildly playing his electric guitar. As his rage sends huge electrical charges out into the city, he shackles himself to bed each night to avoid decimating the city. Dragon Eye Morrison’s nemesis, Thunderbolt Buddha (Masatoshi Nagase), who, as a child, was electrocuted by a thunderbolt tracks down Morrison and challenges him to a high-voltage Tokyo rooftop showdown.”
Also, from a review:
“Words cannot begin to describe this film. A 55-minute hyperkinetic descent into electro-charged punk madness, set to an eardrum-shattering industrial punk/noise soundtrack, Electric Dragon 80,000 V transcends film to become an overwhelming, all-immersing experience. Just hope and pray that you still have all your brain cells after you emerge from it.”
How could I not want a piece of that? Now we’ll have to see if I can make this happen. Hmmm.

J is getting annoyed with me. I’ve been neglecting our Netflix. We currently have three films (our maximum) in our possession. All three were added to the queue by yours truly. But I have little interest in viewing any of them any time soon. I’m too far gone, too consumed by the series I’m reading. The good news is that I’m more than halfway through the third book, with the fourth and last one ahead of me. I’ll be sad when I’ve finished…I’m trying to savor them now, despite wanting to rush through to find out what happens next. But still, afterwards I may be ready to take a break. To kick back and watch a few films. Beginning with “Italian for Beginners“, a Danish comedy. Though something’s just been brought to my attention. An alternative to Netflix called GreenCine. The blurbs on their web site sound promising:
“GreenCine carries the best selection of off-the-wall indie, arthouse and excellent DVD fare out there.”
“GreenCine is about diversity not monotony”
“Fascism sucks. On both ends of the spectrum. That’s why at GreenCine there’s something for everyone. We like anime, foreign, HK action and classics titles - and even an occasional blockbuster or two. If what you like to see if off-center, or dead center, in terms of taste, GreenCine is for you.”
We’ll see about that. Haven’t yet had a chance to do an exhaustive search on their site…to see if they carry the films on my list that Netflix doesn’t. I’ll report back with results later.

Look out ladies, there’s a new boy in town. Yet another member of the Peanuts family…these Linus statues have popped up all over St. Paul. The other night I pointed out to J that ours (the one closest to home) looks a bit, well, scuzzier than most. So he offhandedly remarked “well, maybe it’s supposed to be potty-mouth…or dirtball…or whatever his name is”. He was, of course, referring to the infamous Pig Pen. But his suggestion caused me to have a serious laughing fit…snorting and all. Sexy.

Of all the spam I received over the weekend, that was the most innocuous of subject lines…and the one that caught my attention and imagination the most. Sure, being nine years old had its advantages…I didn’t yet obsess about my appearance. I could still be a kid…and play with my brother and our friends and not be too hung up on gender (aside from the occasional “ew, boys have cooties” kinda thing). It was just before we acquired our Atari 5200, but after we’d gotten our first microwave (a mammoth thing that took up a good quarter of the already cramped kitchen). There was fun to be had splashing around in backyard pools, or climbing up the carport to the garage roof, even though we weren’t supposed to. But I honestly wouldn’t want to relive that time…I was on the cusp of adolescence and puberty, which was rough enough the first time around. Age nine was also the year that my teachers finally suggested I have my eyes checked. Cheesy as it sounds, when I put on my first pair of eyeglasses it was like I was seeing the world for the first time. Never mind that the first thing the eye doctor had me look at was a giant sign for a steakhouse at the mall. At the time it seemed an amazing sight, so crisp and clear and larger than life. Unfortunately my coordination didn’t improve as significantly as we’d all hoped…I still couldn’t throw, catch or hit a softball worth a damn that summer. The first and last summer that I played on an aptly named team, the White Bear Wipeouts. We won only one game, and that was against Hugo, for pete’s sake. At least I haven’t broken a bone since I was nine (unless you count my useless, mangled pinkie toes). But even that wasn’t my fault. I remember the day clearly. Our teacher surprised us with a rare treat. Rented rollerskates from the local rink, to be used in the gym. Luckily there was just one pair small enough for my teeny feet. Every grade I seemed to be the smallest kid in the class. And I somehow wound up skating near Dallas, the largest kid in the class. A boy the the size of a large sixth-grader. His coordination wasn’t so hot either, because he somehow managed to trip himself up and fall down. Hard. And on top of me. I knew something was wrong instantly. I heard the sharp snap of breaking bone. Felt the uselessness of my left wrist and hand. Teachers rushed over to help. Him. He may have been a little bruised afterwards, but was otherwise fine. I tried to speak up about my arm, and was eventually waved away to go see the nurse. Who made a cursory examination of my arm, told me I was being a baby and to go back to class. Where I was unable to both open my desk, and either remove from it or place anything in it. My brother walked me home after class, empathizing with me. My parents seemed annoyed but promised to take me to the doctor. The next day. I muddled my way through the evening and went to bed miserable. When the next day came the x-rays proved what I knew to be true. My wrist had been cleanly broken. And a cast was immediately set. I received a few apologies, but the experience left me feeling insignificant and vulnerable and helpless. So no thank you, I don’t want to look and feel 20 years younger. Instead I’ll be content with turning thirty soon…and reminiscing about the awkward age of nine.