The Writer’s Life: Film & Book Reviews, Observations, and Stories

Yesterday I watched the Serena Williams’ match with Elena Demensieva on both U.S. and British television. Aside from the wonderful tennis, I was struck by how the Americans (some of whom were also on the BBC broadcasting team) willfully mispronounced Demensieva’s name (with the accent on the second-to-last syllable). It reminded me of the United States congressman who has publicly encouraged people to mispronounce Sonia Sotomayor’s name, and, of course, George Bush I, who mangled Saddam Hussein’s name (wanting to piss off Saddam we were told) in his speeches.

Why, I wondered, would NBC insist on this incorrect pronunciation of the fourth ranked woman tennis player in the world? When I thought about it, the reason seemed obvious. Americanizing the name made watching the match easier for American viewers. But I wonder if the public’s interest is really served by doing this? Aren’t we already ethnocentric enough?

Richard Price’s latest novel is neither bad enough to put down nor good enough to continue reading. Each page is much like the one that preceded it. Characters, whom we have little interest in, speak in dialogue about a shooting we don’t care about. Lush Life is anything but. Perhaps this is Price’s point, but it is hardly news to most of us. Here we do not find the brilliance of the television series, The Wire, or of his famous novel, Clockers. Rather, we are presented with 450 pages of dialogue signifying nothing.

Note to Richard Price: You are so much better than this.

I had a good time driving up and down the coast with Kaden (Friday–Tuesday). We stopped at quite a few beaches to surf and sniff.

Started in Santa Cruz and managed to steal a few waves at a pretty competitive spot called Pleasure Point. Watched 12-14 year olds launching out and back into waves like it was nothing. Got intentionally sprayed for not getting out of a rider’s wave fast enough. It was all good fun. Intense and serious but just about everyone was smiling.

“Old Man’s” at San Onofre in Southern Orange County was a treat but it’s a real lazy spot so it got old after a day. Very warm water. I camped out on a bluff right next to the freeway. My neighbors campfire blew right into my tent. Oh, two brothers or close friends paddled out on a single board. The smaller boy was wearing a wetsuit and batman cape, twirling a ski pole. The older boy was doing most of the work in back. He was sporting a bright red wetsuit and batman mask. Others were sitting on the beach playing ukeleles. You could tell many of these people made a life out of being at the beach.

Hit Malibu just for the experience. Fun, long wave but very crowded (even midday on Tuesday), so I kept it short. The old timers played chess in the parking lot.

A strangely beautiful spot called “County Line” (where Malibu and Ventura counties meet) had a great surf beach right across the street from Neptune’s Net, an outdoor biker bar/seafood restaurant.

All in all, a great five days.

Best not to listen
To the shearing wind that cuts
Through the knot of time.

Leaving Barstow is the kind of independent film that could easily be cheesy—you know, the type of thing that film majors do for their final project—but it sets a comfortable tone with good acting, intelligent directing, and easy to watch cinematography, and you willingly come along for the ride, enjoying every minute. The plot is what you might expect—about a high school senior who hopes to go to college, but is entangled in a protective relationship with his single mother. We watch as he is lectured by his favorite teacher (in the screenshot), chats with his best friend, tries to chase away his mother’s latest lover, falls in love for the first time, and eventually has to choose between his mother and his dream. It sounds sophomoric, doesn’t it? But it’s not. In my opinion, it’s as good or better than Wendy and Lucy or Napoleon Dynamite, but then I’m kind of stuck in a high school frame of mind.

Just north of Austin is a small village called Lansing, consisting of a few houses, a church, a railroad siding, and an elevator. My friend from the coffee shop remembered it as a “gem of a town.” I remember seeing it once or twice as a boy with my father. Being there again this weekend was a shock. A first I couldn’t figure it out. The village smelled like a feed lot. Then I realized what was going on. Some of the homes had bags of trash piled in the driveways and around the houses that were several rows deep—probably months’ or years’ worth. It was like being in Napoli or New York during a garbage strike. I guess it’s cheaper to create these walls of trash rather than pay to have it hauled away. It’s a libertarian’s dream. I wonder if there’s any form of government left in Lansing.

When I got beans at my local coffee merchant this morning, the guy on duty, who was orignally from Austin, reminded me that it was the 1985 strike at Hormel and its aftermath—the loss of several hundred well-paying jobs—that caused the changes in the city. Neither the parent union nor the state would support the strike (in fact, the governor sent in troops to protect those crossing the picket lines), and the company eventually succeeded in reducing wages to the bare minimum. Hormel argued that it was the only way they could compete with other meat processors, and they were probably right. Reaganomics was in full swing, unions were busted everywhere, and America was quickly becoming a banana republic. The problem was that the owners of Hormel, no matter how generous they were with their foundation, could not give back to the community what several hundred well-paid workers once did.

Seen from the perspective of twenty years, one can argue that world economic conditions (the so-called integrated global economy) was responsible, and there was nothing anyone could do. Perhaps this is true, but, certainly, Reagan and the Bushes hastened the effects. Their one driving political purpose was to shift as much wealth to the ruling classes as possible, and, in this, they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.

When he exhausted
All hope of any outcome,
He found his true form.

While I was working on my blog in the library in Austin (which, by the way, is a fantastic facility), a woman began a conversation with the lady sitting at the table next to me. They talked as if they had just met on the street. Sotto voce was not the standard, I discovered. The conversation started with my neighbor’s hair color and proceeded from there to things they had in common, including friends and stuff they each liked. When it became clear it wasn’t going to end anytime soon, I suggested they lower their voices. They looked at me as if I were making a joke, laughed, and continued as before. Now annoyed, I suggested they take it outside. This time, in deference to my persistence, began speaking in exaggerated whispers.

Several minutes later the woman who began the conversation left for another part of the library.

When I got up to use the men’s room, I passed her and she took the opportunity to give me a piece of her mind. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t react. I could sympathize. I had put a dent in their style.

“I always talk like that in the library,” she said, with obvious heat.

“No one has ever said anything to you before?”

“No. I’ve had to listen to other people’s conversations many times. Why shouldn’t you?”

“I guess I don’t have Austin manners,” I said and strolled away.

According to The Guardian, FIFA Technical Study member Holger Osieck praised Clint Dempsey for “winning nearly every ball in the air, keeping possession, and working hard” in USA’s 3-0 win over Egypt. Osieck also praised his “tireless” performance against Spain.

Doesn’t Osieck know that he needs to check in with John Harkes before making such comments?